Walking, to one more of those exquisite2 autumn days, warm as summer, yet with a tender brightness that hot summer never has, like the love between two old people, out of whom all passion has died—we remembered that we were at Tintagel, the home of Ygrayne and Arthur, of King Mark and Tristram and Iseult. I had to tell that story to my girls in the briefest form, how King Mark sent his nephew, Sir Tristram, to fetch home Iseult of Ireland for his queen, and on the voyage Bragswaine, her handmaiden, gave each a love-potion, which caused the usual fatal result; how at last Tristram fled from Tintagel into Brittany, where he married another Iseult "of the white hands," and lived peacefully, till, stricken by death, his fancy went back to his old love, whom he implored3 to come to him. She came, and found him dead. A tale—of which the only redeeming4 point is the innocence5, simplicity6, and dignity of the second Iseult, the unloved Breton wife, to whom none of our modern poets who have sung or travestied the wild, passionate7, miserable8, ugly story, have ever done full justice.
These sinful lovers, the much-wronged but brutal9 King Mark, the scarcely less brutal Uther Pendragon, and hapless Ygrayne—what a curious condition of morals and manners the Arthurian legends unfold! A time when might was right; when every one seized what he wanted just because he wanted it, and kept it, if he could, till a stronger hand wrenched10 it from him. That in such a state of society there should ever have arisen the dimmest dream of a man like Arthur—not perhaps Tennyson's Arthur, the "blameless king," but even Sir Thomas Malory's, founded on mere11 tradition—is a remarkable12 thing. Clear through all the mists of ages shines that ideal of knighthood, enjoining14 courage, honour, faith, chastity, the worship of God and the service of men. Also, in the very highest degree, inculcating that chivalrous15 love of woman—not women—which barbaric nations never knew. As we looked at that hoar ruin sitting solitary16 in the sunny sea, and thought of the days when it was a complete fortress17, inclosing a mass of human beings, all with human joys, sorrows, passions, crimes—things that must have existed in essence, however legend has exaggerated or altered them—we could not but feel that the mere possibility of a King Arthur shining down the dim vista18 of long-past centuries, is something to prove that goodness, like light, has an existence as indestructible as Him from whom it comes.
We looked at Tintagel with its risky19 rock-path. "It will be a hot climb, and our bathing days are numbered. Let us go in the opposite direction to Bossinney Cove20."
Practicality when weighed against Poetry is poor—Poetry always kicks the beam. We went to Bossinney.
Yet what a pretty cove it was! and how pleasant! While waiting for the tide to cover the little strip of sand, we re-mounted the winding21 path, and settled ourselves like seabirds on the furthermost point of rock, whence, just by extending a hand, we could have dropped anything, ourselves even, into a sheer abyss of boiling waves, dizzy to look down into, and yet delicious.
So was the bath, though a little gloomy, for the sun could barely reach the shut-in cove; and we were interfered22 with considerably23 by—not tourists—but a line of donkeys! They were seen solemnly descending24 the narrow cliff-path one by one—eleven in all—each with an empty sack over his shoulder. Lastly came a very old man, who, without taking the least notice of us, disposed himself to fill these sacks with sand. One after the other the eleven meek25 animals came forward and submitted each to his load, which proceeding26 occupied a good hour and a half. I hardly know which was the most patient, the old man or his donkeys.
We began some of us to talk to his beasts, and others to himself. "Yes, it was hard work," he said, "but he managed to come down to the cove three times a day. And the asses27 were good asses. They all had their names; Lucy, Cherry, Sammy, Tom, Jack28, Ned;" each animal pricked29 up its long ears and turned round its quiet eyes when called. Some were young and some old, but all were very sure-footed, which was necessary here. "The weight some of 'em would carry was wonderful."
The old man seemed proud of the creatures, and kind to them too in a sort of way. He had been a fisherman, he said, but now was too old for that; so got his living by collecting sand.
"It makes capital garden-paths, this sand. I'd be glad to bring you some, ladies," said he, evidently with an eye to business. When we explained that this was impracticable, unless he would come all the way to London, he merely said, "Oh," and accepted the disappointment. Then bidding us a civil "Good day," he disappeared with his laden30 train.
Poor old fellow! Nothing of the past knightly31 days, nothing of the busy existing modern present affected32 him, or ever would do so. He might have been own brother, or cousin, to Wordsworth's "Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor33." Whenever we think of Bossinney Cove, we shall certainly think of that mild old man and his eleven donkeys.
The day was hot, and it had been a steep climb; we decided34 to drive in the afternoon, "for a rest," to Boscastle.
Artists and tourists haunt this picturesque35 nook. A village built at the end of a deep narrow creek36, which runs far inland, and is a safe shelter for vessels37 of considerable size. On either side is a high footpath38, leading to two headlands, from both of which the views of sea and coast are very fine. And there are relics39 of antiquity40 and legends thereto belonging—a green mound42, all that remains43 of Bottrieux Castle; and Ferrabury Church, with its silent tower. A peal44 of bells had been brought, and the ship which carried them had nearly reached the cove, when the pilot, bidding the captain "thank God for his safe voyage," was answered that he "thanked only himself and a fair wind." Immediately a storm arose; and the ship went down with every soul on board—except the pilot. So the church tower is mute—but on winter nights the lost bells are still heard, sounding mournfully from the depths of the sea.
As we sat, watching with a vague fascination45 the spouting46, minute by minute, of a "blow-hole," almost as fine as the Kynance post-office—we moralised on the story of the bells, and on the strange notions people have, even in these days, of Divine punishments; imputing47 to the Almighty48 Father all their own narrow jealousies49 and petty revenges, dragging down God into the likeness50 of men, such an one as themselves, instead of striving to lift man into the image of God.
Meantime the young folks rambled51 and scrambled—watched with anxious and even envious52 eyes—for it takes one years to get entirely53 reconciled to the quiescence54 of the down-hill journey. And then we drove slowly back—just in time for another grand sunset, with Tintagel black in the foreground, until it and all else melted into darkness, and there was nothing left but to
"Watch the twilight55 stars come out
Above the lonely sea."
Next morning we must climb Tintagel, for it would be our last day.
And what a heavenly day it was! How softly the waves crept in upon the beach—just as they might have done when they laid at Merlin's feet "the little naked child," disowned of man but dear to Heaven, who was to grow up into the "stainless56 king."
He and his knights—the "shadowy people of the realm of dream,"—were all about us, as, guided by a rheumatic old woman, who climbed feebly up the stair, where generations of ghostly feet must have ascended57 and descended58, we reached a bastion and gateway59, quite pre-historic. Other ruins
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