Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/462

452[April 10, 1869] Tintagel, Arthur's old palace by the sea, is certainly one of the most romantic spots in England. It stands on a desolate precipice of slate rock, which seems rent by an earthquake into two parts, the sea having undermined it. Half the castle stands on the mainland and half on the isolated rock, where the citadel and chapel are. Many of the walls have fallen, those that remain are shattered and ruinous. Leland describes it as having been "a marvellous strong and noble fortress," almost impregnable, and on a high and terrible crag, with a drawbridge crossing the chasm.

The old landing place Porthleaven, the "Iron Gate" at the foot of the promontory, is supposed to be British work of great antiquity. Tintagel is Tennyson's "many-towered Camelot," where the wise and brave king once held court, with gentle Gawain, Launcelot the champion of the lake, and generous Sir Tristram. Fuller calls the son of Pendragon "the British Hercules." This Tintagel, "the impregnable fortress," the stronghold of the princes of Cornwall, is frequently mentioned in old romances. It was supposed to become invisible twice in every year. "Dunchine," the castle of the Cleft, is mentioned in Doomsday Book. When the Earls of Cornwall held it, Earl Richard, the son of King John, entertained here his nephew David, Prince of Wales. It next became a crown prison. In 1385 a lord mayor of London was sent here for a contumacious mayoralty; but in Elizabeth's reign the grave Burleigh shook his head at the cost of the repairs, and allowed the sea and storm at last to conquer. A curse seems on the place now; no lichens spot the stones, no ivy grows over them; there they stand, bare as the sea-vexed rocks below. The cliffs here are hung with samphire. The people of Bossiney believe that Arthur still haunts these ruined battlements, in the shape of a chough or a raven. Cervantes mentions this superstition in his Don Quixote. "Have you not read in the famous exploits of King Arthur, of whom there goes an old tradition that this king did not die, but that by magic art he was turned into a raven, and that in process of time he shall reign again, and recover his kingdom and sceptre, for which reason it cannot be proved that from that time to this any Englishman has killed a raven?" The name of Arthur's discreditable queen, Guinivere, is still common in Cornwall under the disguised form of "Jennifer."

Strange to think, that perhaps, where those cushions of sea pinks that cover the top of the citadel cliff now grow, Arthur and his knights once trod. Wild sea birds scream where the harpers once sang the praises of their king. The glory and the praise are gone; no words of love or courage are heard now, only the sound of the mournful waves; as Sir Bedivere said:

The crow has a fair westward flight before him now along the wild north Cornish coast, where the granite cliffs are reddened as if with the blood of seamen that have been so often hurled against them by the cruel sea, and left to perish at their base. Every village along this storm-swept coast, this churchyard of sailors, has its own strange legend of vapoury phantom ships, of fairy dances round old cromlechs on the moors, of saints' miracles, of daring smugglers and the caverns they haunted, of mermaids and their love for the sons of men, of giants and their wars, of King Arthur and his knights, of wreckers and their savagery, of witches and their cantrips, of old churches, and the consecrated bells that rejoice and sorrow within their crumbling salt-corroded towers.

Forrabury (Bottreaux) church, that stands on the cliff above Boscastle, a town situated in a little seaside ravine, like a small Balaclava, has a fine legend, which the Rev. Mr. Hawker, the Cornish poet, has immortalised. The tower has no bells. From the silent tower of Bottreaux, says Mr. Wilkie Collins, no chimes have ever sounded for a marriage, no knell has ever been heard for a funeral. The reason for the silence is this. Centuries ago the Forrabury people resolved to have a peal of bells which should rival those at Tintagel, which rang merrily at the marriage, and tolled mournfully at the death of King Arthur. The bells were cast, blessed with cross and sigil, and while still warm from the foundry, shipped for Forrabury. The bark had a halcyon journey with its blessed burden, and was soon in sight of the slate rocks of Bottreaux. As the vesper bell sounded from Tintagel, the pious pilot crossed himself, and knelt to thank God for the safe and prosperous voyage. The mocking captain sneered on his piety. "Thank God?" said he; "forsooth, thank my hand at the helm; thank the good ship and the stout canvas; thank me at sea, and thank the saints when at home." The pilot reproved him, but in vain. The vessel was already approaching the harbour, the people of Forrabury stood on the cliffs hailing the white sails every moment looming larger. All at once a supernatural wave rolled mountains high towards the vessel; it sank before it without a struggle. The impious captain and the cursing crew all perished, the pious pilot alone was saved. And now, when a storm is brooding, and the sea grows troubled with a mighty anger, the bells of Forrabury are still heard deep below the waves, tolling for the dead. From that day to this the tower of Bottreaux has remained silent.

In a valley running up from the sea near Boscastle stands the ancient mossy church of Minster, overlooking a dell of old oak trees. The tower of this church was pulled down centuries ago. The local legend has it, that the monks of old time used to place a light in one of the windows of the tower, to guide belated worshippers at night to their altar. Whether the monks had a special horror of wreckers, we know not, but certain it is that