Into King Arthurs land—Tintagel his birth-place, and Camelford, where he fought his last battle—the legendary¹ region of which one may believe as much or as little as one pleases—we were going to-day. With the good common sense which we flattered ourselves had accompanied every step of our unsentimental journey, we had arranged all before-hand, ordered a carriage to meet the mail train, and hoped to find at Tintagel—not King Uther Pendragon, King Arthur or King Mark, but a highly respectable landlord, who promised us a welcome at an inn—which we only trusted would be as warm and as kindly² as that we left behind us at Marazion.  
The line of railway which goes to the far west of England is one of the prettiest in the kingdom on a fine day, which we were again blessed with. It had been a wet summer, we heard, throughout Cornwall, but in all our journey, save that one wild storm at the Lizard³, sunshine scarcely ever failed us. Now—whether catching⁴ glimpses of St. Ives Bay or sweeping⁵ through the mining district of Redruth, and the wooded country near Truro, Grampound, and St. Austell, till we again saw the glittering sea on the other side of Cornwall—all was brightness. Then darting⁶ inland once more, our iron horse carried us past Lostwithiel, the little town which once boasted Joseph Addison, M.P., as its representative; gave us a fleeting⁷ vision of Ristormel, one of the ancient castles of Cornwall, and on through a leafy land, beginning to change from rich green to the still richer yellows and reds of autumn, till we stopped at Bodmin Road.
 
No difficulty in finding our carriage, for it was the only one there; a huge vehicle, of ancient build, the horses to match, capable of accommodating a whole family and its luggage. We missed our compact little machine, and our brisk, kindly Charles, but soon settled ourselves in dignified⁸, roomy state, for the twenty miles, or rather more, which lay between us and the coast. Our way ran along lonely quiet country roads and woods almost as green as when Queen Guinevere rode through them "a maying," before the dark days of her sin and King Arthur's death.
 
Here it occurs to me, as it did this day to a practical youthful mind, "What in the world do people know about King Arthur?"
 
Well, most people have read Tennyson, and a few are acquainted with the "Morte d'Arthur" of Sir Thomas Malory. But, perhaps I had better briefly⁹ give the story, or as much of it as is necessary for the edification of outsiders.
 
Uther Pendragon, King of Britain, falling in love with Ygrayne, wife of the duke of Cornwall, besieged¹⁰ them in their twin castles of Tintagel and Terrabil, slew¹¹ the husband, and the same day married the wife. Unto whom a boy was born, and by advice of the enchanter Merlin, carried away, from the sea-shore beneath Tintagel, and confided¹³ to a good knight¹⁴, Sir Ector, to be brought up as his own son, and christened Arthur. On the death of the king, Merlin produced the youth, who was recognized by his mother Ygrayne, and proclaimed king in the stead of Uther Pendragon. He instituted the Order of Knights¹⁵ of the Round Table, who were to go everywhere, punishing vice¹² and rescuing oppressed virtue¹⁶, for the love of God and of some noble lady. He married Guinevere, daughter of King Leodegrance, who forsook¹⁷ him for the love of Sir Launcelot, his bravest knight and dearest friend. One by one, his best knights fell away into sin, and his nephew Mordred raised a rebellion, fought with him, and conquered him at Camelford. Seeing his end was near, Arthur bade his last faithful knight, Sir Bedevere, carry him to the shore of a mere¹⁸ (supposed to be Dozmare Pool) and throw in there his sword Excalibur; when appeared a boat with three queens, who lifted him in, mourning over him. With them he sailed away across the mere, to be healed of his grievous wound. Some say that he was afterwards buried in a chapel¹⁹ near, others declare that he lives still in fairy land, and will reappear in latter days, to reinstate the Order of Knights of the Round Table, and rule his beloved England, which will then be perfect as he once tried to make it, but in vain.
 
Camelford of to-day is certainly not the Camelot of King Arthur—but a very respectable, commonplace little town, much like other country towns; the same genteel linendrapers' and un-genteel ironmongers' shops; the same old-established commercial inn, and a few ugly, but solid-looking private houses, with their faces to the street and their backs nestled in gardens and fields. Some of the inhabitants of these said houses were to be seen taking a quiet afternoon stroll. Doubtless they are eminently²⁰ respectable and worthy²¹ folk, leading a mild provincial²² life like the people in Miss Martineau's Deerbrook, or Miss Austen's Pride and Prejudice—of which latter quality they have probably a good share.
 
We let our horses rest, but we ourselves felt not the slightest wish to rest at Camelford, so walked leisurely²³ on till we came to the little river Camel, and to Slaughter²⁴ Bridge, said to be the point where King Arthur's army was routed and where he received his death-wound. A slab²⁵ of stone, some little distance up the stream, is still called "King Arthur's Tomb." But as his coffin²⁶ is preserved, as we............