THE DOG-FISH.
THE DOG-FISH.
Fishingvillages look charming from the sea, the houses rising one above another against the hills, with green fields and windswept trees for background; and they are very picturesque when looked upon from hilltops, with all their boats riding to their moorings, or sailing about in the offing. This is the home of the pilchard in summer and autumn, and the industry is important. When confectioned in oil, and tinned, the pilchard is "sardine." One of the most beautiful sights on the coast is the united fleets from Mevagissey, Polperro, and Looe, "drifting" on a clear, dark night, with their riding-lights twinkling. So peaceful, and not a sound reaches the shore, for deep-sea fishing is a silent occupation. Fish are supposed to be very sensitive to sounds, and it is one of the deadly sins to whistleor sing on board a boat when her nets are in the water. These places live for the most part on Wesley and pilchards. Speak well of both, and you may be happy.
Pickled pilchards are exported to Italy in casks; and the abusers of the Pope and all his works wax fat. The man who ventures to say a good word for his Holiness needs courage; but those who make faces now would feel bad without Lent and fish days in the Roman calendar. Guy argued that it showed a fine spirit to feed poor benighted Italians who crossed themselves, and pouch a hundred thousand sterling a year for the trouble. Pickled pilchards he looked on as a bond of union between the two countries. Pilchards feed bodies, the Pope souls, and the shekels come here. Long live the pilchard! Commerce is the fifth gospel, and Rashleigh puts it in a nutshell—Father Prout couldn't do better—
"Here's to the health of the Pope! May he live to repent,And add just six months to the term of his Lent,And tell all his vassals from Rome to the Poles,There's nothing likepilchardsfor saving their souls."
"Here's to the health of the Pope! May he live to repent,And add just six months to the term of his Lent,And tell all his vassals from Rome to the Poles,There's nothing likepilchardsfor saving their souls."
The incense of fish, fried and grilled, ascends to high heaven, or as far as it can reach in that direction, morning and evening; and when there's no incense times are hard. The sign is said to be infallible.
Pilgrims sometimes fancy that fish is cheapwhere it is caught, but this is one of the fallacies of the day. Soles go to Billingsgate when they die, and so do most fish of good table reputation. A visitor may sometimes secure a sole when landed, but only the millionaire class can do so often. The Bookworm tried the experiment, and Guy told him he should have known better; but he was carried away with excitement at seeing a real live sole flap its fins and gape. People standing around told him the fish was alive, but would be iced with the rest, and sent to Billingsgate. The Bookworm thought he would like to buy it, and there was a sudden lull in the business going on on the quay. The sole belonged to a man in a blue flannel shirt, and every one crowded round and stared at him, and listened attentively when he was asked to name a price. The man seemed sorry to part with the fish in this way, and then he asked a price which might have affected the price of "stocks" had it been reported. The Bookworm brought home his capture in triumph. Guy studied the question afterwards, and found that the people liked to pack fish in ice, and pay cartage, and railway charges, and commissions, and make bad debts, all for the honour of selling fish at Billingsgate at a lower price than they would sell it on the spot. "The nearer the sea the further from fish," is the working motto, but it loses its strangeness after a time.
Fisher people eat fish, but prefer flesh at themidday meal. We found the man in a blue flannel shirt sitting on a post, smoking a short clay as black as ebony, and he told us that his boy Tom wouldn't even ask a blessing on "no vish" when it was served for dinner. "I shaan't ask no blessing over no vish, nor nothing but butchers maate," says young Tom; and the man in the blue shirt told us he thought this thankless spirit resulted from too much schooling!
A deep-sea fisher, with a boat of his own, is the most independent man in the universe, having no landlord, paying no rent, burdened with no tax on boat and gear, going and coming as he pleases. He reaps without sowing, and is "protected" within the three-mile limit by gunboats in a land of "free trade." A blue-water fisher is not ashamed of his calling, hiding himself under the title of "artist" in shrimps, or "purveyor" of lobsters, or "merchant" in mackerel, and the rest. A fisherman, honest fisherman, is not too proud to be called what he is. The art of fishing is as old as humanity, and it has been discovered that a fish diet can produce a great nation in the Far East.[J]Guy wanted to know why fishers are always called "poor," and why sentimental tears wereshed over their hard lot? Fish cost nothing to feed, yet fetch about twice as much as beef and mutton for the table, and so somebody made a good thing if the fisherman was poor. If the calling was a hard one, one must go to some other part of the world to discover it; and as for danger, cases of drowning at sea here are very rare. The moan of the "Three Fishers" doesn't suit the part in this place.
THREE MINUTES WITH A DOG-FISH.The net is cut by the spines on the dorsal fins.
THREE MINUTES WITH A DOG-FISH.The net is cut by the spines on the dorsal fins.
Fish "charms" are comparatively rare, but fish oil is said to be good for weak vision, and the smoke from burning fish is a protection against evil spirits. The eating of skate accounts for large families, and a dogfish secures an heir male, if eaten in the month of May. Kings and queens, and all persons worried on this subject, please note.
The curative effects of sea-water drunk fasting are believed in. Some of the old people say they have never taken any other medicine. A master mariner told us that, at sea, sailors would drink sea-water instead of coming to him for a dose of "traade" out of the medicine-chest. The Bookworm said a medical journal had recently drawn attention to the subject, and recommended it to people who rose bad-tempered in the morning. Certainly the ocean wouldn't miss a few bucketfuls, and mothers-in-law and M.P.'s, studying the questions of the day, might go in strongly for the ocean cure. What a sweet-temperedworld to live in then, and plenty of water for fish to swim in left!
A deep-sea fisher has a good eye for colour, and every shade and tint upon the face of the sea and heavens he knows as well as any artist. Fish colours he knows to a shade of a shade, and when the sky has a queer look, he likens it to "mackerel" tints, and every tint is an omen to him.
How many hours a day a fisherman passes looking at the sea has never been counted. There is, perhaps, some unknown fascination for eye and ear, something calling which will not be denied. We noticed an old man who seemed glued to a stump in a nice sunny corner, out of the way of the wind, and the old man took possession of it. The view from this post was seaward, of course, and when the old man wasn't gazing at the sea and clouds, he took off his sou'wester and looked inside of that. Sometimes he put something inside his sou'wester, and then took something out and popped it in his mouth. The lining of his sou'wester was his storehouse of unexhausted tobacco-quids. This was "Uncle Tom" and "Uncle Tom's post," and the men, in passing, would hail him, "How ar'ee to-day, Uncle Tom?" to which he would reply, "Toll-loll." It wasn't much, but Guy, taking it as evidence that he could speak, laid in a stock of black, rank Irish roll tobacco, fit for chewing, and scraped an acquaintance.
Did he ever tire of looking at the sea? Not that he was aweer on. The vish was in the zay, an' th' wind was in the clouds, and what else was there in this world worth looking at? Man and boy, he had followed the sea till his hair was white, until he knew its coquetries and passions, and generation after generation before him were sailor-fishers, until "the salt was in his blood." The old man's eyes were wild-violet-blue, and a mystic light came into them when he said that at times the sea "called" to him, and "ef zo be I had my way, I'd die at zay, and be buried in salt watter, like Jan Tregose."
Guy paid court to the old sea-dog, until his sou'wester was full of fresh quids, and wormed out the story of Jan Tregose, who, it appeared, was one of the good old sort in the good old times, who could sing a song, and swear a swear, and loved a fiddle, and a maid, and brandy-toddy with the best. Now, when Jan found his timbers so shaken that he had to take to his bed, a longing came over him to die at sea, and be buried in deep water. The sea-spirit came to him in his dreams—the same spirit, tall and diaphanous, that used to come to him when a young man and tell him what was going on at home whilst he was on his voyages. The sea-spirit had not troubled him since he had remained ashore, until now, and it was a sign to him.
Jan Tregose called his sons together, andmade them swear that never, whilst breath was in them, should he be laid in a coffin, or buried in the earth. Then the sea-spirit came again, and told him that when the tide turned that night she would receive him. The old man called his sons again, and they carried him on board their lugger, and sailed away in the calm night, with the stars alone for witnesses. The spare lugsail was spread over the nets, and upon it Jan lay, his long, thin white hair gently lifting in the breeze; and there was nothing heard but the sea-splash against the boat, and nothing seen but a long-necked gannet on the wing.
The boat was far enough from land when the tide turned. The sons looked, and there was a mist before their eyes, but it went "like a flash," and the old man lay stark. Then the sons knew it was the sea-spirit they had seen as mist.
The sons kept their oath, and wrapped their father in the old lugsail, and watched him disappear in thirty fathoms of water, ten miles from the Stone. And many a man has declared that he has heard Jan Tregose fiddling and singing before a storm. Those who are wise put back when they hear "Jan's tune" at sea, for there is "sartin to be a coose time."
"The salt is in the blood of these children of the sea, and has developed a strange mysticism," said the Bookworm. "Of course, I don't understand it," he added quickly, seeing Guy bracehimself up and put on his cross-examining air. "It's there all the same, and the sea has voices and prophecies for them which we landsmen miss; and why not? The sea is as a human face to them, and they know when it is troubled with the spirit of passionate unrest. It may be that, like the fishes, they have a sixth sense, and can see dark shadows fluttering under cloudless skies, and hear voices from afar preluding passionate symphonies."
"These fellows are always looking on the sea, and no doubt spot things before we should. Wonder if they didn't; but why this high-falutin?" asked Guy.
"It may be magnetic phenomena, and these men unconsciously receive messages; but it is none the less mystical to me," said the Bookworm, unruffled.
"I see; kind of receiving officers to the Clerk of the Weather. The newspapers will come out with this sort of thing in the near future: 'Our special correspondent writes that a change may be expected soon—he feels it in the marrow of his bones;' or, 'Our infallible predicter at the Land's End heard sea-voices last night, and recommends umbrellas and mackintoshes for the next week.' Take out a patent in time and make a fortune; ideas are money just now," rejoined Guy, holding out the red flag.
The Bookworm was provokingly unconscious.
A STREET CORNER, ST IVES.
A STREET CORNER, ST IVES.
Cornwallhas a fascination for artists, and it is said that Newlyn and St. Ives have many more reputations to make. On the south coast, where studios are few, we often saw artists of the unflinching, realistic school painting directly from Nature, their models standing patiently enough in exposed places. And such models! There are grand heads and faces among these fisher-folk, and one can get models for saints or Vikings.A collection of sketches made between Polperro and the Dodman was shown us, which would do splendidly for every character in a Passion-play. Judas was there, who would, and did, receive his pieces of silver before sitting for his "effigy" to be drawn. He looked the part to perfection. And the sketches of women were splendid also, which is not remarkable, as they possess, in these parts, much of the languorous grace of their Southern sisters, the eyes being incomparably beautiful.
The sea is the mother of life and beauty, and that is why Venus rose from the waves. The birthplace of the goddess might have been here, long ago, when the short, stiff galleys of Greek and Phœnician rowed along the coast, marvelling at its beauty, after the pulseless shores of the tideless Mediterranean. Here were the dark cliffs and the sapphire waters falling on the golden sands. And in the early morn a soft, diaphanous mist was borne onwards by the breakers, so those who saw said, loveliness rose from the foam, and they called the vision Aphrodite—the awakening of Nature into beauty. The mariners took the vision home, and Aphrodite, the life and movement of the sea, became the guardian of mariners—the morning and the evening star.
The Beach is the shy maiden, seeking always the shadow of rocks and cliffs, and running into caves to hide from the light of day, when adorningherself with sea-shells, and rainbow medusæ, and deep-tinted anemones, and all the treasures which the ardent sea casts into her lap. And the Sea is the wooer, restless and masterful, wooing ever and in every mood, and making his lovesong in sweet lullaby, and plaintive moan, and martial beat as of ten thousand drums heralding the march of grand battalions.
When you see a girl in a boat you may write her down "stranger," and if you see her handling a pair of sculls, you may be sure of it.[K]The mothers of the blue-water men have as little as possible to do with the sea, and are content to admire its greens and blues shot with flaming sky tints, and dream of "heavenly costumes" in like shades, at so much halfpenny per yard. Strong prejudices exist in places against women having anything to do with boats; but custom differs greatly on the north and south coasts as to what a woman may or may not do, when the men come ashore. That women and cats, hares and rabbits, bring "bad luck" is a very general superstition; so a woman never goes out with her husband fishing, and seldom steps into a rowboat. Where public sentiment is weak, and they can if they like, they don't like; and, in places, the art of making and mending nets is entirely lost to the women, though formerly, to make and mend nets, of all sizes, was a part of every girl'stechnical education; and in a fisher's family her fingers were never idle in making good the rents made by rocks and the sharp teeth of the voracious dogfish.
Guy said it was probably the fault of the men that the women left their boats and gear alone. On rivers and lakes, where girls were encouraged, they took to boating like anything, and if there was a prettier picture than a girl sculling, or a girl eight, he'd like to see it. The men had no doubt frightened the women in the course of centuries with stories of sea-monsters and fairies, and no wonder they threw over net making and mending at the earliest moment.
The sea has its "bucca," just as the land has its piskie, and there is the same uncertainty as to the origin of the one as of the other. We picked up a story, and the Bookworm called it
The Romance of a Bucca.
It is known to all fishermen living at the Cove, and fishing with crab-pots, long lines, spilters, and drag-nets, that Bucca could bring good luck or bad luck just as he was minded, but that he never interfered with any man who owned a big boat, or went far away to sea with drift-nets for the capture of pilchard, herrings, and mackerel, in their season. Bucca did not move with the times, and got out of the way of great trawlers,and craft worked by steam and motors, churning up the sea when it was restful, and defying wind and tide; but was content to lord it over those who went in and out in little boats, and left him his share of "luck" upon the beach, when they landed. The fisherman often saw him, when the water was clear, working in and out amongst the crabs and lobsters, half-hidden with sea-weeds; and it was always counted as good luck to see Bucca at work, because he who saw was sure to have a fine catch. Sometimes he was seen, when the mists rolled up, sitting amongst the shags upon the rocks, holding court amongst them, and the noise which the birds made was taken for song, so the fishermen of the Cove called the mist "music," and they say to one another that the "music" is coming off the land, when the mist is rising and rolling away in clouds.
Bucca was not always Bucca, but a young prince who loved a maid, "tall as a lyllye refreshed by a showere," but, alas! shut up in a convent to be out of his reach. Then he grew desperate, and bribed a "wise woman" to change him into a pigeon, so that he could come and go, and the maiden took the pigeon into her cell, and hid it in her bosom. The prince won the maiden's heart, and she grew more lovely and contented, which was her undoing, for the Lady Superior thought something must be wrong when a maiden under her charge was happy; so she sent secretlyto the holy monk living near by, who caught the pigeon in the cell, and loosened the spell of the "wise woman," when the prince stood confessed the maiden's lover in his human shape. The maiden clung to him, and he was bold and used bold threats, so the doors flew wide open, and they would have fled, but the holy monk cursed him with a curse, and turned him into a Bucca for a thousand years, or until such time as he should win woman's love.
THE FIGUREHEAD OF THE "CALEDONIA," MORWENSTOW.
THE FIGUREHEAD OF THE "CALEDONIA," MORWENSTOW.
A Bucca is not fair to see, being human but in form, with a dark face, like weather-beaten rock, and big head with tangled masses of fine seaweed for hair; but he has power to change at will into fish or bird, though not into anything with a human soul. So when the maiden looked upon the prince, she shrank from a thing so loathsome, and he rushed down the nearest cliff and into the sea, and sought companionship with fishes, until he learnt the ways of a Bucca, and could exercise dominion in his new element. He could neither drown in the sea, nor die upon land, for a thousand years, or until such time as he might win woman's love.
The prince became Bucca of a cove wherein there were but few dwellers, and the fishermen became accustomed to see him sitting amongst the seaweed, and on the rocks amongst the sea-birds, and noticed that he was always sad and lonely, so they had compassion in their hearts,and spoke him fair. Bucca rewarded them by filling their crab and lobster pots, in season, and driving the fish into their nets; and when a storm arose he'd lift their little craft over the waves, and guide them home in safety in the thickest fog. Generation after generation came and went; and the little children heard of Bucca, and what he could do for those who spoke him fair, and of the terrible things which happened to those who mocked him because of his dark skin, and big head, and seaweed curls. People who treated him badly he punished by driving the crabs and lobsters from their pots, and the fishes from their nets, and would let them drown in storms.
One of the Cove fishers was Uncle Malachi, who, when he was old, was left with a little maid, a grandchild, to bring up; and he took her in his boat with him, teaching her all he knew. People laughed, and said it was unlucky to have a maid on board a boat; and it seemed so, for Uncle Malachi went out and returned with empty pots and nets. One day the little maid fell into the sea, but Bucca held her up until Uncle Malachi reached his gaff, and gaffed her in. From that day he never wanted luck when he took his little maid with him; and "Malachi's luck" became a saying in the Cove for a good catch.
For centuries the Bucca lived at the Cove, lording it over fishes and fishermen, and neverthought to cut short the term of his punishment by winning woman's love; but when he held up the little maid in the sea until Uncle Malachi gaffed her, an idea came into his head, and his heart throbbed.
The little maid grew beautiful and her lovers were many, but she gave her love to Seth Barton, who was as dark as she was fair, and passionate as he was dark, and none of the fisher-lads dared so much as lift their eyes to Uncle Malachi's little maid when he was near. Seth was a crabber, and took over all the old man's pots and gear and boat when he was laid to rest, and he was married to the little maid, and they lived in the old house with the windows looking on the beach. In the linhay at the back Seth placed all his gear wanting mending, and Grace was deft with the "needle," having been taught by Malachi to make nets and mend them, to bait the long lines, and do all that a boy might do on the boat or on shore. Only Seth would not take Grace out with him, for there was a saying, "A woman in a boat is a devil afloat," and he was a fisher, and feared bad luck if a married woman put foot over the gunwale.
Now, when Seth Barton was at sea, Bucca would come into the linhay and make and mend the nets and gear, so that Grace had little to do. By-and-by she grew accustomed to Bucca, who came and went as he pleased; and when hepleased no one could see him, so it was no good for Grace to shut the door and say he should not come. Bucca, in fact, was often with her when she did not know it, and in her dreams she was wooed by a handsome young prince, who took her thoughts from Seth, and filled her with passionate longings, so she was never so happy as when asleep and dreaming dreams. When she awoke there was only Bucca with his seaweed hair and ugliness, so she had no idea that the lover of her dreams was Bucca, the prince of olden days, when the soul of a man beamed in his eyes. In time, the sight of the ugly Bucca grew distasteful, and she would rather mend the nets and bait the hooks than have him about with his flat fishy eyes, in which no human light beamed. And Seth, when he heard of the visions, grew jealous; and Grace held her peace, but was rude to Bucca, telling him, in scorn, that if he were but as her dream-lover, she'd follow him over sea and land.
Then Bucca knew he'd never win woman's love, and he must abide his thousand years.
One night, however, Grace dreamt a dream, in which her prince-lover pressed her lips and eyes, and whispered softly, so that she rose in sleep and followed the vision, which passed over the sea. She unmoored Seth's boat and took the oars, but Bucca was there, and lifted their weight, and drew back the waves that scarcely touched,so that the boat travelled fast, and Grace still slept. When the boat was far from land the vision changed, and the prince became a Bucca, who knelt before her, his sea-locks dripping, imploring for a woman's love to restore him to his lost estate. There was pity in her soul, and the fishes swam round and round the boat to witness the strange wooing, and wonder what would happen if their Bucca won a woman's love. The night was dark, and the stars shone, so that the sea was jewelled. Grace, under the enchantment of a spell, lifted Bucca's head and looked into his eyes, but they were poor and flat, with no light in them like the light in the eyes of men.
Then she took fear and awoke, and the spell was broken.
The men of the Cove heard a woman's scream, and rushed down to the beach, where Seth was looking for his boat. Afar off, a mere speck, they saw a woman rowing, but the boat glided over the sea impelled by invisible power, and when its keel grated on the sand, the men saw Bucca leave the stern, and disappear.
The fishers praised Bucca for bringing the boat to shore in safety; only Grace knew, and kept her secret, as a Cornish woman can, until she grew old, and then she told it to her children.
Those who have the right sort of eyes may see the Bucca, whose thousand years of doomare running out, and no woman's love has come to shorten it. But the little boats are disappearing from the Cove, and big boats go to and fro, churning up the blue water, and sounding steam whistles, and Bucca has told the sea-birds and all the fishes, the crabs and the lobsters, that when he disappears there will be none to rule over them.
The Cove maidens are not taught to row and handle boats, and you may go there and never see a woman touch a boat or mend a net, for fear that Bucca may take a fancy to them, and "slock" them out to sea. And they don't need the warning twice.
>TINTAGEL.
TINTAGEL.
The"good" King Arthur left some tracks, on the north coast mostly. We heard nothing of him on the south. Tennyson followed the northern trail, and we followed Tennyson, for a while; and we started in comfort, which any one may do now the Tintagel hotel is running. The King himself was never so well accommodated on the spot. The Arthur zone is somewhat limited for mere holiday pilgrims. The Lyonesse is out of it now, so the area is about from Bude to Camelford, and back again, following the lines of desolation and tumuli. The anniversary of the King's birthday is still celebrated by the ringingof bells under the sea between Bude and Boscastle. We didn't hear them, but some people say they have.
We had a wet Sunday—a day of pitiless rain and gloom, a day to be remembered as long as human sensation of the dismal lasts. Everybody took to letter-writing and addressing post-cards. So the morning passed, and it was cheerful to hear some one say it would be all right after twelve—it was always all right then. We struggled on, and still it poured. There was some wind, but it was the rain which took possession of us; and Guy suggested that the Gulf Stream had gone wrong this time, and was pouring out of the clouds. We explored the hotel, and tried smoking and sleeping, and sleeping and smoking, until we were awake again, and began to take an interest in our fellow-pilgrims.
The Bookworm talked King Arthur in the drawing-room when only a few were present, but the news somehow spread through the house, and he soon had an audience, and everybody a Tennyson in pocket. Guy said the little beggar must have been grinding secretly in order to surprise us one day. The surprise came now to all who had been reading up Tennyson with the view of following in the footsteps of Arthur from battle-field to battle-field, from cradle to grave, and all within the borders of the Duchy, to find thatArthurs were plentiful, and that there was one at least for each kingdom in Great Britain, and one across the water. The mythical Arthur, the historical Arthur, and the Tennysonian Arthur were "reviewed."
A lady visitor in spectacles said Arthur was her ideal. One reason—she might almost saytheone reason—for her coming into Cornwall was to visit Tintagel, his birthplace, and pay homage to his sepulchre, if she could find it.
Guy said her sentiments were exalted, and sustained one on a wet Sunday. He was sorry that he did not know as much as his learned friend the Bookworm, but he had a sort of impression that Arthur was not happy.
The lady sighed, and put all the fault upon Queen Jenefer. Arthur was her ideal, but, alas! he allowed the Queen to have too much of her own way, and should have interfered when she broke the china and threw her jewels into the river. Guy confessed himself interested in this free handling of the subject, and learnt the lady's views on the subjection of women (within limitations, of course) to the men who found them in bread-and-butter and pocket-money.
A young lady interrupted conversation by giving a recitation, and everybody pulled out Tennyson, and read marked passages to one another, and so the evening slipped away. Still it rained; but we didn't mind it now, especiallyas we had been informed on good authority that it always cleared after a downpour!
The Bookworm enjoyed himself most when button-holed by an antiquarian, who listened with an ear-trumpet whilst he explained that it was of no consequence whatever whether King Arthur ever existed, because he was an idea. The deaf gentleman begged leave to make a note of so original a remark; and made more notes whilst the Bookworm aired his conviction that Arthur represented a phase—a passing phase—of civilization in Britain, and that the legends which grew around his name served to show how little society was prepared for the higher standards of life, known well enough, but, alas! not followed.
The Bookworm told a little story which, he said, was not very well known, not having been unearthed by the Historical MSS. Commissioners until Tennyson had finished his great Arthurian romances.
King Arthur's Judgment.
The King sat in his hall with his knights, and every one else was there who could be there of right, and many who had no privilege wrote to the King for tickets; the stable-boys and scullions fought for places round the door, and climbed the high windows and peeped through,for the word had gone round that the King would hear a matrimonial cause. The King looked troubled when he took his seat, because he had been obliged to refuse places to so many fair ladies who promised to lace in extra tight so as to take up the least possible room. But accommodation was limited, and every refusal made him an enemy. Such is greatness; and the King was troubled.
YSEULT AND TRISTAN.
YSEULT AND TRISTAN.
But there was more trouble to come, as he well knew, whenever he sat as President for the trial of matrimonial causes; and his prophetic soul told him that he would be outwitted in the end, because there was no King's Proctor, all ears, by his side. The case was that of Mark, King of Cornwall, whose wife Yseult, the Helen of the day, had been carried off by Tristan, second to none in love and war. All the parties were of blue blood, and the fugitives had only yielded to the law by force of arms, so the case was not wanting in interest for the upper crust.
Mark opened the proceedings by saying he wanted his wife home again, where things were sixes and sevens, and dinner served anyhow; but Yseult refused to return because Mark was bilious at times, and said bilious things much better left unsaid, and, moreover, she liked Tristan best, and would stick to him, for aye and always. There was a fluttering of fans and applause in Court, which made the President sad,so that he threatened to have it cleared on repetition. There were no counsel learned in the law practising in those days before the King, so the parties said their say and argued as they pleased; and when Tristan sidled up to Yseult and patted her on the back, saying, "Cheer up!" the whole assembly hurrahed, and the King made believe not to hear it, but turned to Jenefer, his Queen, who whispered to Lancelot, who was a sort of friend of the parties all round; but what they said was not audible to the reporters.
The King was troubled. There were no precedents in law for a case like this, so he made a little speech to Mark, telling him he'd be better without an unwilling wife; but Mark was bilious, and extra obstinate, and would have his wife, his whole wife, and nothing but his wife. Then King Arthur changed his note, and tried his cunning upon Tristan, who said love was above law, and he'd have his love. There was, then, nothing for the King to do but to pronounce judgment, which he did, dividing Yseult between the two; and the order which he made was that she should stay with the one when the trees were in leaf, and with the other when they were bare, and to Mark, as husband, he gave first choice.
The trial was in the autumn, and Mark was no fool, so he elected to take Yseult when trees were bare, saying to himself, "She will come now, and let me but get her home, and the trees willnever be in leaf for Tristan!" But he was no match for Yseult, who threw herself into the arms of her lover, saying—
"There are three trees of constant hue,The ivy, the holly, and the yew;They bear leaves summer and winter;Tristan! I am thine for ever."
"There are three trees of constant hue,The ivy, the holly, and the yew;They bear leaves summer and winter;Tristan! I am thine for ever."
"A woman drove three chariots abreast through Temple Bar that time," said Guy, laughing. "If women practised at the bar to-day, it would be a bit awkward for the judges, for they'd make holes in judgments as wise as Solomon's."
We had a gentle reminder that it was time for all lights to be out, and the last impression everybody had was that the right thing to do in Cornwall was to make a pilgrimage to Tintagel.
THE DIGEY
THE DIGEY
Thatenlightened citizen of the United States, Mr. John B. Bellamy, left his name, writ large, in the visitors' book. He was keen as ever on collecting relics of the late King, and inquired if the holy grail was yet on view at the castle? King Arthur's tables, plates, and punch-bowls not being what he wanted, he chipped some and left the rest. The hotel clerk told us that the gentleman left some opinions on things in general behind him; and the impression on the clerk'smind was that if this citizen from the States ran the show at Tintagel, things would be a "durned sight different" in two shakes of a duck's tail.
KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE, TINTAGEL.
KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE, TINTAGEL.
Sea and land and sky were deliciously clear when we started for the ruins; and the atmosphere was so buoyant that we could not bear it more so when walking without flying off into space.
"I don't suppose it makes much difference to a fellow where he's born, but I'd like a more cheerful place to live in," said Guy, throwing himself on the turf, and pulling his hat over his eyes.
A stiff climb up slippery stone steps, with samphire growing perilously near, brought us to the "fortress," and what there was in stone suggested little by way of poetry or romance. Guy had made up his mind beforehand to see something quite different—Tintern Abbey, or Warwick Castle, or something. But this! As he couldn't see what he wished for, he would see nothing; so tilted his hat over his eyes to keep off the sun and hide disappointment. We left him where he lay, and rambled.
A fine bit of rock scenery, even in Cornwall, and worth looking at, is this. If there had only been a tempest, and all the elements at war, their chorus of thunders drowning the sea-birds' cries! But to-day it was sunshine and peace, and nothing to tell of war but sharp-pointed rocks andlandslips and slides telling their own tale, writ large.
"This is the very place in which Arthur should have been born," said the Bookworm, when Guy, tired of his own discontent, joined us.
"I don't see any reason for it," said Guy.
"No! When Arthur first opened his eyes upon this rock, what impression do you think he received? This was a fit cradle for great things in a great mind, and this man was great."
"Never lived at all, perhaps."
"I don't care. This was a fit cradle for an allegory of war between What Is and What Should be, and Arthur is as the light shining in darkness."
"Have it your own way," said Guy; "but wouldn't some other place do just as well?"
"Quite, if the first impressions of the newly born were of eternal struggle. Arthur was born for the world, and not for a parish."
"I think we'd better clear," said Guy, sharply. "Here's the lady in specs., and the antiquarian with the trumpet, and the whole crew. They've all got their Tennysons, and I can't go over it again. If the place was only a bit like it, I wouldn't mind."
Dozmary Pool is a cheerless place at its best; it is situated in a sad-coloured region, whereinstones grow best, and everything that has life struggles for existence. This is the place that Tennyson selected for the King's death, and the mysterious disappearance of his famous sword "Excalibur." In Arthur's time the mere was better worth calling a lake than now, but the stones and barren lands and hills and general "wishtness" of the place are pretty much the same. The locality is marked as about one thousand feet above sea-level, and in winter the place is said to be more breezy than pleasant. They have been draining the pool a bit lately, but no trace has yet been discovered of "Excalibur"—one day a syndicate may be formed to dredge the mere. An arm "clothed in white samite, mystic, beautiful," holding King Arthur's sword with jewelled hilt, and every jewel worth a king's ransom, would be worth a trifle, and make the poet's reputation as an historian. Some people are never satisfied until they can see and handle things.
Guy touched the water of the silent pool, and, finding it real, was encouraged to sit down and discuss things in a matter-of-fact sort of way. He said we could start with facts here, for here was a mere, and the water was wet. Then, there were rushes growing on the margin of the pool, and when the wind blew, no doubt they made rush music—sad, mournful music—a sort of place where a fellow who had had a good lickingin battle would come and hide, and die, if he could, and no one to see him do it.
"I like this story: there's something human about it, and it was a bit rough on Sir Bedivere to be told to chuck away the only thing King Arthur had got. I feel for him. Only fancy being told to throw away the only available asset to pay funeral expenses! It was very human on the part of Sir Bedivere to want to keep Excalibur, and I don't suppose that any of Arthur's friends and next-of-kin believed him when he said he threw it into the mere. He said he did, and we'll let it go at that; and if it should be dredged up one day, why, of course, the good Sir Bedivere will leave the court without a stain upon his character."
The sun was westerning; a slight breeze ruffled the waters of the mere and the dry reeds rustled. The Bookworm said it must have been a fit place for a great temptation, and he was glad that Tennyson made it appear that Sir Bedivere was a man of honour. A chough skimmed across the water, and the Bookworm said this was a strange coincidence—we were talking about King Arthur, and the very bird which legend said his soul inhabited came upon the scene. This was only wanted to make the wild place a sanctuary.
"Nothing but legend," said Guy, quickly. "Wherever you are in this county, its nothingbut legend. You walk on legend, and just breathe it all the time."
"Perhaps you never heard this one," said the Bookworm. "There's time to tell it."
"Go ahead, old man," said Guy. "Another added to the number won't count much."
King Arthur's Chough.
Well, then, you know, said the Bookworm, that King Arthur was married to one Jenefer (sometimes called Guinevere, which is the same thing), and that Merlin was present at the wedding. Everybody was having a good time, and Merlin slipped out and consulted the stars. He had a monopoly in that business, and was paid special fees by all the swagger people who wanted to know what trouble they'd be likely to get into if they but went the right way to work about it. Well, Merlin slipped out of the castle, and ran against a young gentleman singing, "The night is clear, and I am all alone," underneath the royal bridal chamber. "You'd better go and sing indoors," said Merlin, making a note of the fact that this was Launcelot, a young sprig of nobility who thought no small beer of himself in those days. He was an army man, and fond of poaching. Merlin read something in the stars that night which he told an old chough, who knew more of the black art than any other bird. Thischough Merlin gave the King as a wedding present. The bird was as black as a raven in those days, and used to live so long that it was only at its prime at a hundred years.
Queen Jenefer was much written about in the chronicles of her time; and so the poets know what she did, and what she wore, and how she looked, and what she said at all the grand tournaments whereat she distributed blue ribands and prizes to knights of high degree.
The King was a busy man, so busy that in the end mischief came of it, for when garden parties and jousts and things were going on, he was wont to say to Launcelot, his aide-de-camp in chief: "Just you look after the Queen this afternoon." Now this suited Launcelot full well, for he was a born Squire of dames and a gallant man as well as a fighter of renown. Sometimes the King sighed when he saw his Queen riding away gaily by the side of Launcelot; but he was a fond husband, and it was not in his heart to say her nay when she would a-hawking go, or watch the young knights a-hurling for a silver ball.
So the habit grew as the King got busier and busier. And though Launcelot liked more and more to wait upon the Queen and learned to put up with her tempers, the Queen was not happy at home, where she had it all her own way, but would look in the mirror and pity herself, for that being plump and fair to look upon there wasno Arthur at hand to pinch her cheeks and tell her so. At times she even grew weary at hearing how good Arthur was, and would exclaim in her tantrums—