CHANNEL PORTS— AND SOME OTHERS 



25 



"modern criticism," you will savor 

 nought but romance. 



Bring history as a companion if you 

 will ; learn that here was the home of 

 ancient earls ; that the cliffs are the 

 highest, the surf the strongest, in all 

 Cornwall ; that the ruined castles are 

 Norman, the ancient church Saxon ; but 

 no longer can you hope for vision of the 

 "Blameless King ;" see his knights climb 

 to the castle or talk with the Cornish 

 chough, the red-footed, red-beaked raven 

 that Tintagel calls "King Arthur's soul." 



Once there was a day when every rock- 

 marking in eastern Cornwall spoke of 

 Arthur, when every wave lapping its 

 western shore babbled his name. The 

 actual Arthur may have been but a petty 

 British king "living in the dark interval 

 between two civilizations," but his name 

 lives immortal, unlimited by race, or 

 state, or clime, in every heart which re- 

 veres chivalry, honor, and truth. 



Can you see them, hear them. Arthur's 

 knights coming up to sit at the round 

 table? Is it only the thunder of the long 

 surf far below, the shriek of a gull, the 

 chough's call that reaches your ear? 

 That silvery chime is the sunken bells of 

 Forrabury, pealing far below the sea ; 

 that swift-winged boat is the Black 

 Prince, whose' daredevil master was the 

 terror of the coast. Take the key. climb 

 above to the door of the old keep, and 

 high above sea and shore look and dream 

 if you will. 



Here are the ruins of Tintagel about 

 you : across the chasm the yet more 

 formless remains of Terrabil, the twin 

 fortresses known to the earliest Cornish 

 earls. Roman, Saxon. Norman has built 

 here ; but it is not for architecture or 

 archaeology that one comes here : it is for 

 romance. "It befell in the days of Uther 

 Pendragon" — yes, we all know Mallory's 

 story : but why, oh why did "Gourlois of 

 the Purple Spear" lock himself in one 

 castle and his wife in the other? There 

 are many questions at Tintagel that are 

 never answered (see page 40). 



It is no soft landscape here. A high, 

 bleak, wind-swept cliff, dropping sheer to 

 the sea, which pounds it perpetually ; but 

 such a sea — turquoise, green, sapphire, 

 violet, spread with clear, lace-like foam, 



or lying smooth and still beneath the 

 cliff's purple shadows. Into the sharp 

 rock-cleft it runs with savage force and 

 sends huge clouds of spray to lick the 

 wet, black rocks above. 



Higher upon the steep sides the turf 

 grows short, but thickly, and topaz-eyed 

 sheep pasture fearlessly in the smell of 

 the salt spray. But no longer Ygrayne 

 walks sad-eyed upon the terrace, think- 

 ing of her dead lord, nor Guinivere 

 watches impatiently that way which 

 Launcelot should come, nor Arthur mar- 

 shals his knights. There are tourists, 

 and that is all. Yes ; one must bring ro- 

 mance to Tintagel if one would take it 

 away. 



PICTURESQUE ST. ISAACS 



Tintagel is not a port. Occasionally a 

 boat comes in under the cliff with sup- 

 plies for the village, but houses are few 

 and there is little fishing. Port Isaac, 

 farther down the coast, is, I was about 

 to say, a typical Cornish port ; but I fear 

 I have said that of another. It is typical. 

 They are all alike and unlike. I think 

 the steepest carriage road it has ever 

 been my pleasure to descend comes down 

 into Port Isaac ; and the little stone 

 houses of the village cling to the sides of 

 the ravine as best they can. 



As a harbor we should not approve of 

 it, yet it has served a fishing fleet for 400 

 years. Pleasant enough it is of a sum- 

 mer day. but in spring or autumn storm, 

 when the waves come hurling in with ap- 

 palling weight and force to suck out 

 again, as if they would drag the village 

 into the depths, when the fleet jockeys 

 for hours in the trough of a vicious sea, 

 unable to make the opening between the 

 black cliffs, yet in constant peril of the 

 surf, one can but wonder why men made 

 a home there (see page 46). 



the "real" ST. IVES 



Now St. Ives is different. Storms are 

 just as severe there, of course, but the 

 harbor is better protected. The tides are 

 too great in these Cornish ports to be 

 manageable. They are deep enough at 

 high water for large vessels, but a few 

 hours later they have gone out com- 

 pletely and left the sands bare. One 



