TELLS OF KING ARTHUR AND OTHER MORE OR LESS FABULOUS MATTERS

Next day Oliver Trembath and his friend Charles Tregarthen, before the sun had mounted his own height above the horizon, were on their way to the Land’s End.

The young men were admirably suited to each other.  Both were well educated, and possessed similar tastes, though their temperaments were dissimilar, and both were strong athletic youths ­Oliver’s superiority in this latter respect being at that time counterbalanced by his recent illness, which reduced him nearly to a level with his less robust companion.

Their converse was general and desultory until they reached the Land’s End, on the point of which they had resolved to breakfast.

“Now, Oliver, we have purchased an appetite,” said Tregarthen, throwing down a wallet in which he carried some provisions; “let us to work.”

“Stay, Charlie, not here,” said Oliver; “let us get out on the point, where we shall have a better view of the cliffs on either side of the Land’s End.  I love a wide, unobstructed view.”

“As you will, Oliver; I leave you to select our table, but I pray you to remember that however steady your head may have been in days of yore when you scaled the Scottish mountains, the rough reception it has met with in our Cornish mines has given it a shake that renders caution necessary.”

“Pshaw!  Charlie, don’t talk to me of caution, as if I were a timid old woman.”

“Nay, then, I talk of it because you are not a timid old woman, but a reckless young man who seems bent on committing suicide.  Yonder is a grassy spot which I think will suit you well.”

He pointed to a level patch of sward on the neck of land that connects the outlying and rugged promontory which forms the extreme Land’s End with the cliffs of the mainland.  Here they spread their meal, and from this point they could see the cliffs and bays of the iron-bound shore extending on the one hand towards Cape Cornwall, and on the other towards that most romantic part of the coast known by the somewhat curious name of Tolpedenpenwith, where rocks and caverns are found in such fantastic fashion that the spot has become justly celebrated for picturesque grandeur.  At their feet, far below, the great waves (caused by the swell, for there was no wind) boomed in solemn majesty, encircling the cliffs with a lace-work of foam, while on the horizon the Scilly Islands could be seen shimmering faintly.  A bright sun shone on the unruffled sea, and hundreds of ships and boats lay becalmed on its breast.

“’Tis a splendid scene!” said Oliver, sitting down beside his friend.

“It is indeed, and reminds me of the sea of glass before the great white throne that we read of in Revelation.  It is difficult to imagine or to believe that the peaceful water before us, lying between this spot and the Scilly Islands yonder, was once a land full of verdure and life ­yet such tradition tells us was the case.”

“You mean, I suppose, the fabled land of Lionesse?” said Oliver.

“Yes; you have heard the story of its destruction, I suppose?”

“Not I,” said Oliver, “so if you have a mind to tell it me while I satisfy the cravings of an unusually sharp appetite I’ll consider you a most obliging fellow.  Pass me the knuckle of ham ­thanks ­and the bread; now go ahead.”

“’Tis a romantic story,” said Tregarthen.

“All the better,” replied Oliver.

“And terrible,” added Tregarthen.

“It won’t spoil my appetite,” said his friend.

“Well, then, I’ll tell it ­to the best of my ability.”  The youth then began the following legend, pausing ever and anon during the narration to swallow a piece of bread or a mouthful of cold tea, which constituted the principal elements of their frugal meal.

“You must know that, once upon a time, long, long ago, in those ancient days before Norman or Dane had invaded this land, while Britain still belonged to the British, and King Arthur held his court in Tintagel’s halls, there was a goodly land, named Lethowsow or the Lionesse, extending a distance of thirty miles between this cape and yonder shadowy islets which seem to float like cirrus clouds on the horizon.  It is said that this land of Lionesse was rich and fertile, supporting many hundreds of families, with large flocks and herds.  There were no fewer than forty churches upon it, from which it follows that there must have been a considerable population of well-doing people there.

“About the time of the events which I am going to narrate, King Arthur’s reign was drawing to a close.  Treason had thinned the ranks of the once united and famous knights of the Round Table.  It is true that Sir Kaye, the seneschal, remained true, and Sir Ector de Mans, and Sir Caradoc, and Sir Tristram, and Sir Lancelot of the Lake, of whom it was said that `he was the kindest man that ever struck with sword; and he was the goodliest person that ever rode among the throng of knights; and he was the meekest man, and the gentlest, that did ever eat in hall among ladies; and he was the sternest knight to his mortal foe that ever laid lance in rest.’  But many seats at the Round Table that once were filled by brave warriors had become empty, and among these, that of Prince Mordred, who, it was rumoured, meant to declare open war against his royal cousin and benefactor.

“One night King Arthur sat at the Round Table in Tintagel Castle with his knights gathered round him, and Queen Guenever with her maidens by his side.  At the beginning of the feast the king’s brow was clouded, for, although there was no lack of merriment or song, there was a want of the free-hearted courtesy and confidence of former days.  Still the semblance of unabated good-fellowship was kept up, and the evening passed in gaiety until its close, when the king rose to retire.  Taking in his hand a golden cup to pledge his guests, he was about to drink, when a shudder passed through his frame, and he cast the goblet away, exclaiming, `It is not wine, but blood!  My father Merlin is among us, and there is evil in the coming days.  Break we up our court, my peers!  It is no time for feasting, but rather for fasting and for prayer.’

“The king glanced with a dark frown at the chair of his kinsman Mordred, but it was not empty!  A strange, indistinct, shadowy form rested on it.  It had no human shape, but a dreadful outline of something unearthly.  Awe-struck and silent, the company at once broke up.

“On the following day, news of Mordred’s revolt arrived at Tintagel Castle, and day after day fresh rumours reached it of foes flocking in numbers to the rebel standard.  The army increased as it advanced, but, strange to say, King Arthur showed no disposition to sally forth and meet the traitor.  It seemed as if his brave heart had quailed at last, and his good sword Excalibur had lost its magic virtue.  Some thought that he doubted the fidelity of those who still remained around him.  But, whatever the cause might have been, King Arthur made no preparation, and indicated no feeling or intention.  He lay still in his castle until the rebels had approached to the very gates.  There was something terrible in this mysterious silence of the king, which had a tendency to overawe the rebels as they drew near, and remembered that they were about to match themselves against warriors who had grown old in fellowship with victory.

“When the main body of the invaders appeared, the great bell of the fortress at last rang out a stirring peal, and before the barbican the trumpets sounded to horse.  King Arthur then with his knights and men-at-arms, the best warriors of Britain, arose and sallied forth to fight in their last battle.

“Next evening a broken band of horsemen alone remained to tell of the death of their king and the destruction of all their hopes.  They numbered several hundreds, but their hacked armour, jaded steeds, and gaping wounds told that they were unfit to offer battle to any foe.  They were in full flight, bearing a torn banner, still wet with the blood of King Arthur; yet they fled unwillingly, as men who were unused to retreat, and scarce knew how to comport them in the novel circumstances.  Their course was in the direction of the Lionesse, the tract of country called in the Cornish tongue Lethowsow.  On they dashed, without uttering a word, over the bleak moors before them.  Sometimes they halted to drink at a spring or tighten their girths, and occasionally a man fell behind from sheer exhaustion.  At night they encamped, after a hard ride of thirty miles.  Next morning the flight was resumed, but the vindictive Mordred still thundered on in pursuit.  Ere long they heard a trumpet sounding in their rear, and King Arthur’s men halted for a few minutes, with the half-formed design of facing the foe and selling their lives dearly.  While they paused in gloomy irresolution, gazing sternly on the advancing host, whose arms flashed back the rays of the morning sun, a mist rose up between them and their foes.  It was a strange shadowy mist, without distinct form, yet not without resemblance to something ghostly.  The knights at once recognised it as the shade of Merlin, the Great Wizard!  Slowly the cloud uprose between the pursuers and pursued, effectually protecting the latter; nevertheless, although baffled, the former did not give up the chase.

“At last Mordred reached a lofty slope, from the top of which he descried his enemies retreating across the land of Lionesse.  Mad with rage, he descended to the plain, where soft sunlight shone through luxuriant glades and across the green pastures, gladdening the hearts of man and beast.  Nature was all peaceful, and gloriously beautiful, but Mordred’s eyes saw it not, his heart felt not the sweet influences.  The bitterness induced by hatred and an evil conscience reigned within, as he urged his steed furiously onward.

“Suddenly a terrible change occurred in the atmosphere, which became oppressively sultry and horrible, while low muttering thunders were heard, and heavings of the earth felt.  At the same time the cloud gradually condensed in front of Mordred, and, assuming a distinct form, stood before him in the person of Merlin the Wizard.  For a few seconds they stood face to face, frowning on each other in awful silence.  Then Merlin raised his arm, and immediately the thunders and confused mutterings increased, until the earth began to undulate and rend as if the foundations of the world were destroyed.  Great fissures appeared, and the rocks welled up like the waves of the sea.  With a cry of agony the pursuers turned to fly.  But it was too late.  Already the earth was rent into fragments; it upheaved convulsively for a few seconds; then sank beneath the level of the deep, and the ocean rushed wildly over the land, leaving nothing behind to mark the spot where land had been, save the peaked and barren rocks you see before you, with the surge beating continually around them.”

“A most extraordinary tale, truly,” said Oliver.  “Do you believe it has any foundation?”

“I believe not the supernatural parts of it, of course,” replied Tregarthen; “but there is something in the fact that the land of Cornwall has unquestionably given up part of its soil to the sea.  You are aware, I suppose, that St. Michael’s Mount, the most beautiful and prominent object in Mounts Bay, has been described as `a hoare rock in a wood,’ about six miles from the sea, although it now stands in the bay; and this idea of a sunken land is borne out by the unquestionable fact that if we dig down a few feet into the sand of the shore near Penzance, we shall come on a black vegetable mould, full of woodland detritus, such as branches, leaves of coppice wood, and nuts, together with carbonised roots and trunks of forest trees of larger growth; and these have been found as far out as the lowest tide would permit men to dig!  In addition to this, portions of land have been overwhelmed by the sea near Penzance, in the memory of men now alive.”

“Hum!” said Oliver, stretching out his huge limbs like a giant basking in the sunshine, “I dare say you are correct in your suppositions, but I do not profess to be an antiquary, so that I won’t dispute the subject with you.  At the same time, I may observe that it does seem to me as if there were a screw loose somewhere in the historical part of your narrative, for methinks I have read, heard, or dreamt, that King Arthur was Mordred’s uncle, not his cousin, and that Mordred was slain, and that the king was the victor, at the fatal field of Camelford, although the victory was purchased dearly ­Arthur having been mortally wounded and carried back to Tintagel to die there.  But, of course, I won’t pretend to doubt the truth of your narrative because of such trifling discrepancies.  As to the encroachment of the sea on the Cornish coast, and the evidences thereof in Mounts Bay, I raise no objection thereto, but I cannot help thinking that we want stronger proof of the existence of the land of Lionesse.”

“Why, Oliver,” said Tregarthen, laughing, “you began by saying that you would not dispute the subject with me, and in two minutes you have said enough to have justified a regular attack on my part, had I been so disposed.  However, we have a long road before us, so I must protest against a passage of arms just now.”

Having finished breakfast, the two friends proceeded along the coast a few miles to Tolpedenpenwith.  Here, in the midst of the finest scenery on the coast, they spent the greater part of the day, and then proceeded to Penberth Cove, intending to secure a lodging for the night, order supper, and, while that was in preparation, pay a visit to the famous Logan Rock.

Penberth Cove is one of the prettiest little vales in the west of Cornwall.  It is enriched with groups of trees and picturesque cottages, and possesses a luxuriant growth of shrubs and underwood, that almost conceals from view the streamlet, which is the chief cause of its fertility.

There were also, at the time we write of, one or two houses which, although not public inns, were open for the entertainment of travellers in a semi-private fashion.  Here, therefore, our excursionists determined to put up for the night, with the widow of a fisherman who had perished in a storm while engaged in the herring fishery off the Irish coast.  This good woman’s chief physical characteristic was rotundity, and her prominent mental attribute good-humour.  She at once received the gentlemen hospitably, and promised to prepare supper for them while they went to visit the far-famed Logan or Logging Rock, which lay in the vicinity.

This rock is one of those freaks of nature which furnish food for antiquaries, points of interest to strangers, and occupation to guides.  Every one who goes to the Land’s End must needs visit the Logan Rock, if he would “do” the country properly; and if our book were a “Guide to Cornwall,” we should feel bound to describe it with much particularity, referring to its size, form, weight, and rocking quality, besides enlarging on the memorable incident in its career, when a wild officer of the navy displaced it from its pivot by means of seamen and crowbars, and was thereafter ordered to replace it (a herculean task, which he accomplished at great cost) on pain of we know not what penalties.  But, as we make no pretensions to the important office of a guide, we pass this lion by, with the remark that Oliver and his friend visited it and rocked it, and then went back to Penberth Cove to sup on pilchards, after which followed a chat, then bed, sound sleep, daybreak and breakfast, and, finally, the road to Penzance, with bright sunshine, light hearts, and the music of a hundred larks ringing in the sky.