Read Ebook: Rambles Beyond Railways; or Notes in Cornwall taken A-foot by Collins Wilkie

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We lingered about the wild habitation of the stonemason and his family, until sunset. Long shadows of rocks lay over the moor, the breeze had freshened and was already growing chill, when we set forth, at last, to trace our way back to Liskeard. It was too late now to think of proceeding on our journey, and sleeping at the next town on our line of route.

Returning in a new direction, we found ourselves once more walking on a high road, just as the sun had gone down, and the grey twilight was falling softly over the landscape. Stopping near a lonely farm-house, we went into a field to look at another old British monument to which our attention had been directed. We saw a square stone column--now broken into two pieces--ornamented with a curiously carved pattern, and exhibiting an inscription cut in irregular, mysterious characters. Those who have deciphered them, have discovered that the column is nearly a thousand years old; that it was raised as a sepulchral monument over the body of Dungerth King of Cornwall; and that the letters carved on it form some Latin words, which may be thus translated:--"PRAY FOR THE SOUL OF DUNGERTH." Seen in the dim light of the last quiet hour of evening, there was something solemn and impressive about the appearance of the old tombstone--simple though it was. After leaving it, we soon entered once more into regions of fertility. Cottages, cornfields, and trees surrounded us again. We passed through pleasant little valleys; over brooks crossed by quaint wooden bridges; up and down long lanes, where tall hedges and clustering trees darkened the way--where the stag-beetle flew slowly by, winding "his small but sullen horn," and glow-worms glimmered brightly in the long, dewy grass by the roadside. The moon, rising at first red and dull in a misty sky, brightened as we went on, and lighted us brilliantly along all that remained of our night-walk back to the town.

FOOTNOTES:

I visited St. Cleer's Well, for the second time, ten years after the above lines were written; and I am happy to say that two gentlemen, interested in this beautiful ruin, are about to restore it--using the old materials for the purpose, and exactly , vaikka n?m? onnettomuudet runtelivatkin heit? kovin, ei k?rsimysten maailma ollut en?? varsin vieras. Koska he olivat jo vaistoiltaan pessimistej?, eiv?t he kaikesta t?st? kummastuneet niin paljoa kuin he siit? masentuivat. Kuoleman ajatus oli aina ennenkin ollut heille lohdullinen turva: nyt se oli sit? entist? enemm?n; he kaipasivat saada kuolla. Moinen on kyll? surullista alistumista, mutta ei kuitenkaan niin hirve?? kuin jonkin nuoren tyytyv?isen, onnellisen ja el?m?nhaluisen olennon kapina, olennon, joka yht?kki? huomaa joutuneensa sellaiseen suruun, ettei siihen ole apua ja ettei sill? ole pohjaa, joutuneensa aivan h?nt? kauhistavan kuoleman eteen...

Antoinette n?ki yht?kki? maailman rumuuden. H?nen silm?ns? aukenivat: h?n n?ki el?m?n, ihmiset; h?n tarkasteli nyt is??ns?, ?iti??n, velje??n. Kun Olivier ja m:me Jeannin itkiv?t yhdess?, niin h?n painui yksin??n omaan tuskaansa. H?nen pikku aivonsa aprikoivat ep?toivoissaan menneisyytt?, aprikoivat kuluvaa hetke?, tulevaisuutta; ja h?n n?ki, ettei h?nelle ollut j??nyt kerrassaan mit??n, ei mit??n toivoa, ei mit??n tukea: h?nell? ei ollut en?? luottamusta kehenk??n.

Tulivat hautajaiset, synk?t, h?pe?lliset. Kirkko kielt?ytyi ottamasta itsemurhaajan ruumista siunattuun multaansa. Entisten yst?vien raukkamaisuus j?tti lesken ja orvot oman onnensa nojaan. Tuskin n?ytt?ytyi pari kolme, jotka tulivat tuokioksi; ja heid?n h?peilev? k?yt?ksens? oli viel?kin tuskallisempaa kuin toisten hylk?ys. Tuntui kuin he olisivat muka tehneet tulollaan laupiaan ty?n, ja heid?n vaitiolonsa oli pelkk?? syyt?st? ja halveksivaa s??li?. Oman suvun puolelta tuli viel? pahempaa: sielt? ei annettu lohdutuksen sanaa, vaan sen sijaan karvaita moitteitakin. Pankkiirin itsemurha ei mitenk??n masentanut ihmisten entist? kaunaa, vaan n?ytti heist? melkein yht? rikokselliselta kuin h?nen vararikkonsakin. Porvarisihminen ei anna niille anteeksi, jotka surmaavat itsens?. Heist? on sellainen olento, joka kuolee mieluimmin kuin kest?? h?pe?llisen el?m?n, suorastaan luonnoton; ja he sallisivat, jos voisivat, mielell??n lain koko ankaruuden kohdata vainajaa, joka ik??nkuin n?ytt?? heille sanovan:

-- Mik??n onnettomuus ei ole sen suurempi kuin el?? teid?n kanssanne yhdess?.

Kaikkein raukkamaisimmat eiv?t ole hitaimpia soimaamaan h?nen pelkurimaista tekoaan. Ja kun itsemurhaaja vahingoittaa itsens? el?m?st? pois pyyhkim?ll? kaupan p??llisiksi viel? heid?n etujaankin ja riist?? heilt? koston, niin he tulevat suorastaan hulluiksi. -- Tuokioksikaan ei siis ihmisten p??h?n p?lk?ht?nyt ajatella, mit? Jeannin-parka mahtoikaan k?rsi? ennenkuin h?n siihen tekoon ryhtyi. He olisivat toivoneet, ett? h?n olisi saanut k?rsi? viel? tuhannen kertaa enemm?n. Ja kun h?n p??si heid?n k?sist??n, niin he kohdistivat kirouksensa h?nen perheeseens?. He eiv?t my?nt?neet t?t? itselleen: sill? he tiesiv?t, ett? se oli v??ryytt?. Mutta he tekiv?t sen kuitenkin: sill? heid?n piti saada uhri kostolleen.

M:me Jeannin, joka ei n?ytt?nyt jaksavan en?? muuta kuin vaikeroida, sai takaisin koko tarmonsa, kun h?nen miest?ns? ahdisteltiin. H?n huomasi nyt, miten kovasti h?n oli vainajaa rakastanut; ja niinp? nuo kolme ihmist?, joilla ei ollut tietoakaan siit?, mit? heille huomisp?iv? toisi my?t?ns?, olivat t?ydellisesti yht? mielt? yhdest? seikasta, nimitt?in ett? he luopuisivat ?idin koko taloon tuomista my?t?j?isist? ja kaikesta omasta omaisuudestaan koettaakseen maksaa is?n velkoja mik?li suinkin voivat. Ja kun he eiv?t en?? voineet j??d? pikkukaupunkiin, p??ttiv?t he muuttaa Parisiin.

Se l?ht? oli kuin pakoa.

Illansuussa, -- , -- he meniv?t yhdess? hautausmaalle sanomaan hyv?stit. Siell? laskeusivat he kaikki polvilleen kapealle kivireunustalle, joka ymp?r?i ?sken luotua hautaa. Heid?n kyyneleens? vuotivat ??nett?m?sti: Olivier nikotteli itkiess??n; m:me Jeannin niisti nyyhkiess??n nen??ns?. Leski lis?si tuskiaan, kidutti itse??n muistelemalla alinomaa, mit? h?n oli sanonut miehelleen silloin viimeisen kerran, kun oli n?hnyt h?net el?v?n?. Olivier j?lleen ajatteli h?nen ja is?n keskin?ist? pakinaa penkill? pengerm?ll?. Antoinette ajatteli, mik? nyt oli heid?n kohtalonsa. Yksik??n heist? ei v?himm?ss?k??n m??rin mieless??n soimannut tuota onnetonta, joka oli tuhonnut kanssansa heid?t. Mutta Antoinette ajatteli:

-- Ah, is? rakas, kuinka me joudumme k?rsim??n!

Usva synkkeni, kosteus tunkeusi heid?n ruumiiseensa. Mutta m:me Jeannin ei voinut viel? sielt? poistua. Antoinette n?ki Olivierin v?risev?n, ja sanoi ?idille:

-- ?iti, minulla on kylm?.

He nousivat. Juuri l?htem?isill??n k??ntyi m:me Jeannin viel? viimeisen kerran hautaan p?in:

-- Poloinen yst?v?ni! sanoi h?n.

He poistuivat hautausmaalta, pimenev?n y?n helmaan. Antoinette piteli Olivierin j??kylm?? k?tt? k?dess??n.

He tulivat vanhaan taloonsa. Se oli viimeinen y? heid?n omassa pes?ss??n, jossa he olivat aina nukkuneet, jossa oli kulunut heid?n el?m?ns?, ja heid?n vanhempiensa el?m?, -- noiden seinien sis?ll?, tuon perhehuoneen lieden ??ress?, tuolla neli?m?isess? pikku puutarhassa; n?ihin olivat kaikki perheen ilot ja surut liittyneet niin eroittamattomasti, ett? ne esineet tuntuivat aivan kuin perheen j?senilt?, osalta heid?n el?m?st??n, sellaisilta, ettei niit? voisi j?tt?? muuta kuin kuollakseen.

Matkalaukut olivat jo t?ytetyt. Heid?n piti matkustaa ensim?isell? junalla seuraavana aamuna, ennenkuin naapurien puodit aukesivat: he tahtoivat v?ltt?? heid?n uteliaisuuttaan ja pahansuopia huomautuksiaan. -- Heill? oli halu pusertautua toisiinsa kiinni; ja kuitenkin vet?ytyiv?t he nyt kukin vaistomaisesti omaan huoneeseensa ja viiv?htiv?t siell?: seisoivat liikahtamatta, muistamatta ottaa edes hattua p??st??n ja riisua p??llysvaippaansa, kosketellen seini?, huonekaluja, kaikkea, mik? heid?n piti j?tt??, painaen otsansa ikkunaruutuun, koettaen saada ainaiseksi sieluunsa noiden rakkaiden esineiden kosketuksen. Viimein he ponnistivat voimansa vapautuakseen tuskallisten ajatustensa itsekkyydest?, ja meniv?t m:me Jeanninin huoneeseen, -- perhehuoneeseen, jossa oli suuri vuodekomero per?ll?: siell? olivat he ennen viett?neet yhdess? iltojaan, aina p?iv?llisten j?lkeen, milloin ei ollut vieraita. Ennen!... Kaikki n?ytti heist? jo niin kaukaiselta!... He istuivat vaiti, pienen ja kituvan tulen ??ress?; sitten rukoilivat he yhdess?, polvillaan vuoteen vieress?; ja meniv?t varsin aikaisin levolle, sill? seuraavana aamuna t?ytyi nousta ennen p?iv?n valkenemista. Mutta kauan meni ennenkuin uni tuli.

Kello nelj?n tienoissa aamulla sytytti m:me Jeannin, joka oli katsonut joka tunti kelloaan, eik? ollut jo aika varustautua l?ht??n, kynttil?ns? ja nousi. Antoinette ei ollut nukkunut yht??n, h?n kuuli ?itins? liikkuvan ja nousi my?skin. Olivier oli vaipunut sike??n uneen. M:me Jeannin katseli liikutettuna h?nt?, eik? hennonut h?nt? her?tt??. H?n l?hti Olivierin luota varpaisillaan pois ja sanoi Antoinettelle:

-- Ei nyt kolista: antaa poika-raukan nauttia viimeisist? minuteista t??ll?!

Naiset pukeutuivat ja tekiv?t valmiiksi viimeiset matkak??r?t. Ulkona talon ymp?rill? vallitsi kylmien ?iden suuri hiljaisuus, sellaisten, jolloin kaikki el?v?, olennot, ihmiset ja el?imet, painautuvat ahnaasti l?mp?isen unen helmaan. Antoinetten hampaita kalisutti: h?nen syd?nt??n ja ruumistaan viilsi kylm?.

Ulko-ovi kajahti j??t?v?ss? ilmassa. Vanha em?nt?piika, jolla talon avain oli, tuli viimeist? kertaa palvelemaan is?nt?v?ke??n. Tuo lyhyt ja paksu eukko, jota liika lihavuus haittasi, mutta joka ik??ns? n?hden kuitenkin oli tavattoman nopealiikkeinen, ilmestyi huohottaen huoneeseen, punaisin nenin ja kyyneleit? valuvin silmin, yst?v?llinen naama kiedottuna huiviin. H?n oli ylen pahoillaan, kun n?ki, ett? m:me Jeannin oli jo noussut, eik? ollut her?tt?nyt h?nt?, vaan oli jo itse sytytt?nyt tulen hellaan. -- Olivier her?si muijan tullessa. Ensin aikoi h?n unenhorteessaan painaa silm?ns? j?lleen umpeen, k??nn?ht?? peittonsa l?mpim?ss? toiselle kupeelleen ja nukahtaa uudestaan. Antoinette tuli, laski k?tens? lempe?sti veljens? olalle ja kehoitteli h?nt? hiljaisella ??nell?:

-- Olivier, pikkuinen, nyt on aika.

Olivier huokaisi, avasi silm?ns?, n?ki sisarensa kasvot l?hell? kasvojaan: Antoinette hymyili h?nelle alakuloisesti, ja silitteli hell?sti h?nen otsaansa. H?n toisti:

-- Nyt l?hdet??n! Olivier nousi.

He poistuivat kotoaan, ??nett?m?sti, aivan kuin varkaat. Kaikilla heill? oli matkak??r?j? k?siss?. Vanha em?nt?piika kulki ensim?isen?, ty?nt?en k?sirattailla heid?n matkalaukkujaan. He olivat j?tt?neet melkein kaiken, mit? heill? oli; he eiv?t vieneet mukaansa juuri mit??n muuta kuin mit? heill? oli p??ll?ns?, ja viel? joitakuita vaatteita. V?h?iset muistoesineet oli aikomus l?hett?? heille sitten my?hemmin, rahtitavarana: muutamia kirjoja ja muotokuvia, ja vanha kello, jonka naputus oli heist? aivan kuin heid?n oman syd?mens? sykint??. -- Ilma oli kirpe?n kylm?. Kukaan kaupungissa ei ollut viel? noussut; ikkunaluukut olivat kiinni, kadut tyhj?t. He kulkivat vaiti. Ainoastaan palvelijatar puhui. M:me Jeannin koetti painaa viimeisen kerran mieleens? t??ll? kaiken, koko ymp?rist?ns?, mik? her?tti h?ness? menneit? muistoja.

Asemalla sai m:me Jeanninin itsetunto h?net ostamaan toisen luokan lipun, vaikka h?n olikin p??tt?nyt matkustaa kolmannessa; mutta sellaista n?yryytyst? ei h?n nyt jaksanutkaan kest??, sill? h?nen l?ht?ns? n?ki pari kolme tuttua rautatievirkailijaa. H?n pujahti nopeasti tyhj??n vaunuosastoon ja sulkeutui lapsineen sinne. Siell? he istuivat sitten piilossa ikkunaverhojen takana ja pelk?siv?t, ett? vaunuun ilmestyisi joku tuttava. Mutta ket??n ei tullut: kaupunki ei ollut aivan valveillakaan, kun he l?htiv?t; juna oli tyhj?; siell? oli ainoastaan joitakuita talonpoikia, ja h?rki?, jotka ojentelivat p?it??n vaunujen aukoista ja ynisiv?t suruissaan. Pitk?n odotuksen j?lkeen veturi vihelsi pitk?sti, ja juna l?hti liikkeelle ja painui usviin. Muuttolaiset vetiv?t uutimet ikkunoiden edest? pois, painoivat kasvonsa ruutua vastaan ja katsoivat viimeist? kertaa pikkukaupunkia, jonka goottilainen kirkontorni tuskin kuulsi sumusta, katselivat kukkulaa, jonka rinteet olivat t?ynn? t?llej?, katselivat kuurasta valkeita ja kylm?? huuruavia niittyj?: kaikki oli jo aivan kuin unimaisemaa, kaukaista, niin ett? sit? tuskin uskoi todeksi. Ja kun sekin katosi ja syv? kallionleikkaus er??ss? rautatien mutkassa peitti sen ja he tiesiv?t varmasti, ettei heit? nyt en?? n?ht?isi, eiv?t he en?? itse??n hillinneet. M:me Jeannin kohotti nen?liinan suulleen ja nyyhkytteli. Olivier oli heitt?ytynyt h?nen helmaansa, painoi p??t?ns? ?idin polviin, suuteli h?nen k?si??n ja kasteli niit? kyyneleill??n. Antoinette istui vaunuosaston toisessa kulmassa ja itki hiljaa, kasvot ikkunaan p?in. He eiv?t itkeneet samasta syyst? kaikki. M:me Jeannin ja Olivier eiv?t ajatelleet muuta kuin mik? heilt? oli j??nyt. Antoinette j?lleen ajatteli, mik? heill? oli edess??n: h?n soimasi kyll? sellaisesta itse??n; h?n olisi tahtonut vet?yty? muistoihinsa... -- H?n oli oikeassa, kun ajatteli tulevaisuutta: h?nell? oli selvempi k?sitys todellisuudesta kuin ?idill? ja veljell?. Heill? oli horjuvia kuvitelmia Parisista. Antoinette yksin??n ei ep?illytk??n, mik? heit? siell? kohtaisi. Toiset eiv?t olleet joutuneet sit? viel? ajattelemaankaan. M:me Jeannin kuvitteli, ett? niin surullinen kuin heid?n asemansa olikin, ei siit? ollut aihetta olla levoton. H?nell? oli Parisissa sisar, joka oli rikkaissa naimisissa, er??n hallitusvirkamiehen kanssa; h?n luotti tuon sisarensa apuun. H?n oli sit?paitsi vakuutettu, ettei h?nen lastensa, jotka olivat saaneet hyv?n kasvatuksen ja olivat niin lahjakkaita, -- heid?n lahjoistaan h?n erehtyi, kuten ?idit aina, -- olisi vaikeaa kunniallisesti el?tt?? itse??n.

Tulovaikutelma oli synkk?. Jo asemalla tyrmistytti heit? ihmisten tungeskelu matkatavaratoimistossa, ja ajoneuvojen sekava kuhina valtak?yt?v?n edustalla. Satoi vett?. Ei saatu mist??n ajuria. T?ytyi juosta et??lle, k?det puutumaisillaan raskaiden k??r?jen painosta, jotka pakottivat heid?t pys?htym??n keskell? katua, hevosten jalkoihin j??misen ja likautumisen uhallakin. Ainoakaan ajuri ei v?litt?nyt heid?n kutsuistaan. Viimein saivat he pys?ytetyksi er??n, jolla oli inhoittavan likaiset, vanhat rillat. Kun he nostivat tavaroitaan ajoneuvoihin, putosi heilt? yksi peitek??r? likaan. Asemalta otettu kantaja, joka toi heid?n matkalaukkuaan, ja kuski k?yttiv?t heid?n kokemattomuuttaan edukseen maksattaen heill? kaksinkertaisen hinnan. M:me Jeannin sanoi ajurille er??n huononlaisen, mutta kalliin hotellin osoitteen, jollaisissa maaseutulaiset k?viv?t niiden ep?mukavuuksista huolimatta, koska kerran jotkut heid?n isoisist??n olivat asuneet kolmisenkymment? vuotta sitten niiss?. Siell? nyljettiin tulokkaita. Hotelli oli t?ynn? v?ke?, sanottiin: heid?t ty?nnettiin kaikki kolme ahtaaseen kamariin, josta he saivat maksaa kolmen huoneen hinnan. He koettivat s??st?? p?iv?lliskustannuksia eiv?tk? menneet yhteiseen p?yt??n hotellin ruokasaliin; he tilasivat omaan huoneeseensa vaatimattoman aterian, mutta se maksoikin yht? paljon kuin tuo yhteinen ateria, eiv?tk? he siit? tulleet kyll?isiksi. Heti, kun he p??siv?t Parisiin, luhistuivat heid?n kauniit kuvitelmansa. Ja ensim?isen? y?n? tuossa hotellissa, saamatta unta silm??ns?, ahdettuina kaikki kolme pieneen, ilmattomaan kamariin, jossa heill? oli vuoroin kylm? ja vuoroin kuuma, voimatta kunnolleen hengitt?? ja vavahdellen alinomaa hereille, kun kuului melua k?yt?v?st?, kiinni ly?tyjen ovien kolinaa ja s?hk?kellojen alinomaista soittoa, ja k?rsien julmasti lakkaamattomasta raskaiden ty?rattaiden ja muiden ajoneuvojen jyrin?st?, -- siell? saivat he suorastaan kauhistavan kuvan tuosta j?ttil?iskaupungista, johon he nyt olivat joutuneet, tuntien siihen tuhoutuvansa.

Seuraavana p?iv?n? m:me Jeannin kiiruhti sisarensa luokse, h?nen ylelliseen asuntoonsa bulevardi Haussmannin varrelle. H?n uskoi, kuitenkaan ajatustaan ilmaisematta, ett? heille tarjottaisiin siell? asunto, kunnes he olisivat saaneet asiansa j?rjestykseen. Mutta vastaanotto n?ytti siell? h?nelle kohta, ett? h?n oli erehtynyt. Poyet-Delormen pari oli vimmoissaan sukulaisensa vararikosta. Varsinkin rouva, joka pelk?si, ett? h?nenkin kimppuunsa karattaisiin sen t?hden ja ett? siit? olisi haittaa h?nen miehens? ylenemiselle virkauralla, piti aivan tavattomana julkeutena, ett? vararikon tehnyt perhe tuli takertumaan kiinni heihin ja h?p?isem??n heit? viel? lis??. Itse virkamies ajatteli kyll? samoin; mutta h?n oli melkoisen lauhkea mies; ja h?n olisi kai ollut avuliaampi, ellei h?nen vaimonsa olisi pit?nyt h?nt? silm?ll?, -- seikka, josta mies pohjaltaan olikin hyvill??n. M:me Poyet-Delorme otti siis sisarensa vastaan j??t?v?n kylm?sti. Se sattui m:me Jeanninin ylpeyteen; h?n koetti masentaa tuota tunnettaan: ilmaisi peitellyin sanoin vaikean aseman, jossa he nyky??n olivat, ja mit? h?n oli toivonut Poyet'n perheelt?. H?nt? ei oltu kuulevinaankaan. Heit? ei pyydetty edes aterialle sin? iler away at once in search of the missing members of her little family, who are ranged before you triumphantly, with smoothed hair and carefully wiped faces, ready to be reviewed in a row. Both father and mother often wish you, at parting, a good wife and a large family , just as they wish you a pleasant journey and a prosperous return home again.

In like manner, another instance drawn from my own experience, will best display the anxiety which we found generally testified by the Cornish poor to make the best and most grateful return in their power for anything which they considered as a favour kindly bestowed. Such little anecdotes as I here relate in illustration of popular character, cannot, I think, be considered trifling; for it is by trifles, after all, that we gain our truest appreciation of the marking signs of good or evil in the dispositions of our fellow-beings; just as in the beating of a single artery under the touch, we discover an indication of the strength or weakness of the whole vital frame.

On the granite cliffs at the Land's End I met with an old man, seventy-two years of age, of whom I asked some questions relative to the extraordinary rocks scattered about this part of the coast. He immediately opened his whole budget of local anecdotes, telling them in a quavering high-treble voice, which was barely audible above the dash of the breakers beneath, and the fierce whistling of the wind among the rocks around us. However, the old fellow went on talking incessantly, hobbling along before me, up and down steep paths and along the very brink of a fearful precipice, with as much coolness as if his sight was as clear and his step as firm as in his youth. When he had shown me all that he could show, and had thoroughly exhausted himself with talking, I gave him a shilling at parting. He appeared to be perfectly astonished by a remuneration which the reader will doubtless consider the reverse of excessive; thanked me at the top of his voice; and then led me, in a great hurry, and with many mysterious nods and gestures, to a hollow in the grass, where he had spread on a clean pocket-handkerchief a little stock-in-trade of his own, consisting of barnacles, bits of rock and ore, and specimens of dried seaweed. Pointing to these, he told me to take anything I liked, as a present in return for what I had given him. He would not hear of my buying anything; he was not, he said, a regular guide, and I had paid him more already than such an old man was worth--what I took out of his handkerchief I must take as a present only. I saw by his manner that he would be really mortified if I contested the matter with him, so as a present I received one of his pieces of rock--I had no right to deny him the pleasure of doing a kind action, because there happened to be a few more shillings in my pocket than in his.

Nothing can be much better adapted to show how simple and unsophisticated the Cornish character still remains in many respects, than Cornish notions of organizing a public festival, and Cornish enjoyment of that festival when it is organized. We had already seen how they managed a public boat-race at Looe, and we saw again how they conducted the preparations for the same popular festival, on a larger scale, at the coast town of Fowey.

In the first place, the dormant public enthusiasm was stimulated by music at an uncomfortably early hour in the morning. Two horn players and a clarionet player; a fat musician who blew through a very small fife and kept time with his head; and a withered little man who beat furiously on a mighty drum--drew up in martial array, one behind the other, before the principal inn. Two boys, staring about them in a stolidly important manner, and carrying flags which bore a suspicious resemblance to India pocket handkerchiefs sewn together, formed in front of the musicians. Two corpulent, solemn, elderly gentlemen in black , formed in their turn on each side of the boys--and then the procession started; walking briskly up and down, and in and out, and round and round the same streets, over and over again; the musicians playing on all their instruments at once , without a moment's intermission on the part of any one of them. Nothing could exceed the gravity and silence of the popular concourse which followed this grotesque procession. The solemn composure on the countenances of the two corpulent civil officers who went before it, was reflected on the features of the smallest boy who followed humbly behind. Profound musical amateurs in attendance at a classical quartet concert, could have exhibited no graver or more breathless attention than that displayed by the inhabitants of Fowey, as they marched at the heels of the peripatetic town band.

But, while the music was proceeding, another adjunct to the dignity of the festival was in course of preparation, which appealed more strongly to popular sympathy even than the band and procession. A quantity of young trees--miserable little saplings cut short in their early infancy--were brought into the town, curiously sharpened at the stems. Holes were rapidly drilled in the ground, here, there, and everywhere, for their reception, at corners of house walls. While men outside set them up, women in a high state of excitement appeared at first-floor windows with long pieces of string, which they fastened to the branches to steady the trees at the top, hauling them about this way and that most unmercifully during the operation, and then vanishing to tie the loose ends of the lines to bars of grates and legs of tables. Mazes of long tight strings ran all across our room at the inn; broken twigs and drooping leaves peered in sadly at us through the three windows that lighted it. We were driven about from corner to corner out of the way of this rigging by an imperious old woman, who fastened and fettered the wretched trees with as fierce an air as if they were criminals whom she was handcuffing, and who at last fairly told us that she thought we had better leave the room, and see how beautiful things looked from the outside. On obeying this intimation, we found that the trees had absorbed the whole public attention to themselves. The band marched by, playing furiously; but the boys deserted it. The people from the country, hastening into the town, hot and eager, paused, reckless of the music, reckless of the flags, reckless of the procession, to look forth upon the streets "with verdure clad." The popularity of the Sons of Apollo was a thing of the past already! Nothing can well be imagined more miserably ugly than the appearance of the trees, standing strung into unnatural positions, and looking half dead already; but they evidently inspired the liveliest public satisfaction. Women returned to the windows to give a last perfecting tug to their branches; men patted approvingly with spades the loose earth round their stems. Spectators, one by one, took a near view and a distant view, and then walked gently by and took an occasional view, and lastly gathered together in little groups and took a general view. As connoisseurs look at their pictures, as mothers look at their children, as lovers look at their mistresses--so did the people of Fowey assemble with one accord and look at their trees.

After all, however, I shall perhaps best illustrate the simplicity of character displayed by the Cornish country-people, if I leave the less amusing preparations for inaugurating the Fowey boat-race untold, and describe some of the peculiarities of behaviour and remark which the appearance of my companion and myself called forth in all parts of Cornwall. The mere sight of two strangers walking with such appendages as knapsacks strapped on their shoulders, seemed of itself to provoke the most unbounded wonder. We were stared at with almost incredible pertinacity and good humour. People hard at work, left off to look at us; while groups congregated at cottage doors, walked into the middle of the road when they saw us approach, looked at us in front from that commanding point of view until we passed them, and then wheeled round with one accord and gazed at us behind as long as we were within sight. Little children ran in-doors to bring out large children, as we drew near. Farmers, overtaking us on horseback, pulled in, and passed at a walk, to examine us at their ease. With the exception of bedridden people and people in prison, I believe that the whole population of Cornwall looked at us all over--back view and front view--from head to foot!

This staring was nowhere accompanied, either on the part of young or old, by a jeering word or an impertinent look. We evidently astonished the people, but we never tempted them to forget their natural good-nature, forbearance, and self-restraint. On our side, the attentive scrutiny to which we were subjected, was at first not a little perplexing. It was difficult not to doubt occasionally whether some unpleasantly remarkable change had not suddenly taken place in our personal appearance--whether we might not have turned green or blue on our travels, or have got noses as long as the preposterous nose of the traveller through Strasburgh, in the tale of Slawkenbergius. It was not until we had been some days in the county that we began to discover, by some such indications as the following, that we owed the public attention to our knapsacks, and not to ourselves.

This is particularly humiliating, because it happens to be true. We certainly do trudge, and are therefore properly, though rather unceremoniously, called trudgers, or "trodgers." But we sink to a lower depth yet, a little further on. We are viewed as objects for pity. It is a fine evening; we stop and lean against a bank by the roadside to look at the sunset. An old woman comes tottering by on high pattens, very comfortably and nicely clad. She sees our knapsacks, and instantly stops in front of us, and begins to moan lamentably. Not understanding at first what this means, we ask respectfully if she feels at all ill? "Ah, poor fellows! poor fellows!" she sighs in answer, "obliged to carry all your baggage on your own backs!--very hard! poor lads! very hard, indeed!" And the good old soul goes away groaning over our evil plight, and mumbling something which sounds very like an assurance that she has got no money to give us.

It is unfortunately impossible to convey to the reader an adequate idea, by mere description, of the extraordinary gravity of manner, the looks of surprise and the tones of conviction which accompanied these various popular conjectures as to our calling and station in life, and which added immeasurably at the time to their comic effect. Curiously enough, whenever they took the form of questions, any jesting in returning an answer never seemed either to be appreciated or understood by the country people. Serious replies shared much the same fate as jokes. Everybody asked whether we could pay for riding, and nobody believed that we preferred walking, if we could. So we soon gave up the idea of affording any information at all; and walked through the country comfortably as mappers, trodgers, tradesmen, guinea-pig-mongers, and poor back-burdened vagabond lads, altogether, or one at a time, just as the peasantry pleased.

It may be expected, before I close this hasty sketch of the Cornish people, that I should touch on the dark side of the picture--unfinished though it is--which I have endeavoured to draw. But I have nothing to communicate on the subject of offences in Cornwall, beyond a few words about "wrecking" and smuggling.

Opinions have been divided among well-informed persons, as to the truth or falsehood of those statements of travellers and historians, which impute the habitual commission of outrages and robberies on sufferers by shipwreck to the Cornish of former generations. Without entering into this question of the past, which can only be treated as a matter for discussion, I am happy, in proceeding at once to the present, to be able to state, as a matter of fact, that "wrecking" is a crime unknown in the Cornwall of our day. So far from maltreating shipwrecked persons, the inhabitants of the sea-shore risk their lives to save them. I make this assertion, on the authority of a gentleman whose life has been passed in the West of Cornwall; whose avocations take him much among the poor of all ranks and characters; and who has himself seen wrecked sailors rescued from death by the courage and humanity of the population of the coast.

In reference to smuggling, many years have passed without one of those fatal encounters between smugglers and revenue officers which, in other days, gave a dark and fearful character to the contraband trade in Cornwall. So well is the coast watched, that no smuggling of any consequence can now take place. It is only the oldest Cornish men who can give you any account, from personal experience, of adventures in "running a cargo;" and those that I heard described were by no means of the romantic or interesting order.

Beyond this, I have nothing further to relate regarding criminal matters. It may not unreasonably be doubted whether a subject so serious and so extensive as the Statistics of Crime, is not out of the scope of a book like the present, whose only object is to tell a simple fireside story which may amuse an idle, or solace a mournful hour. Moreover, remembering the assistance and the kindness that my companion and I met with throughout Cornwall--and those only who have travelled on foot can appreciate how much the enjoyment of exploring a country may be heightened or decreased, according to the welcome given to the stranger by the inhabitants--remembering, too, that we walked late at night, through districts inhabited only by the roughest and poorest classes, entirely unmolested; and that we trusted much on many occasions to the honesty of the people, and never found cause to repent our trust--I cannot but feel that it would be an ungracious act to ransack newspapers and Reports to furnish materials for recording in detail, the vices of a population whom I have only personally known by their virtues. Let you and I, reader, leave off with the same pleasant impressions of the Cornish people--you, whose only object is to hear, and I whose only object is to tell, the story of a holiday walk. There is enough to be found in them that is good, amply to justify a little inattention to whatever we may discover that is bad.

FOOTNOTES:

It may be necessary to remind the reader that this statement respecting the population of Cornwall was written in the year 1850. I have no means at my disposal of ascertaining what the increase in numbers may have been during the last ten years.--

The gentleman here referred to--whose kind assistance while I was writing these pages I can never forget--was Mr. Richard Moyle, long resident as a medical man at Penzance. Since my first visit to Cornwall, death has removed Mr. Moyle from the scene of his labours, to the lasting and sincere regret of all who knew him.--

LOO-POOL

"Now, I think it very much amiss," remarks Sterne, in 'Tristram Shandy,' "that a man cannot go quietly through a town and let it alone, when it does not meddle with him, but that he must be turning about, and drawing his pen at every kennel he crosses over, merely, o' my conscience, for the sake of drawing it." I quote this wise and witty observation on a bad practice of some travel-writers, as containing the best reason that I can give the reader for transporting him at once over some sixty miles of Cornish high-roads and footpaths, without stopping to drop one word of description by the way. Having left off the record of our travels at Liskeard, and taking it up again--as I mean to do here--at Helston, I skip over five intermediate market-towns and two large villages, with a mere dash of the pen. Lostwithiel, Fowey, St. Austell, Grampound, Probus, Truro, Falmouth, are all places of mark and note, and have all certain curiosities and sights of their own to interest the inquisitive tourist; but, nevertheless, not one of them "meddled" with me in the course of my rambles, and acting on Sterne's excellent principle, I purpose "letting them alone" now. In other words, the several towns and villages that I have enumerated, though presenting much that was generally picturesque and attractive in the way of old buildings and pretty scenery, exhibited little that was distinctive or original in character; produced therefore rather pleasant than vivid impressions; and would by no means suggest any very original series of descriptions to fill the pages of a book which is confined to such subjects only as are most exclusively and strikingly Cornish.

The town of Helston, where we now halt for the first time since we left the Cheese-Wring and St. Cleer's Well, might, if tested by its own merits alone, be passed over as unceremoniously as the towns already passed over before it. Its principal recommendation, in the opinion of the inhabitants, appeared to be that it was the residence of several very "genteel families," who have certainly not communicated much of their gentility to the lower orders of the population--a riotous and drunken set, the only bad specimens of Cornish people that I met with in Cornwall. The streets of Helston are a trifle larger and a trifle duller than the streets of Liskeard; the church is comparatively modern in date, and superlatively ugly in design. A miserable altar-piece, daubed in gaudy colours on the window above the communion-table, is the only approach to any attempt at embellishment in the interior. In short, the town has nothing to offer to attract the stranger, but a public festival--a sort of barbarous carnival--held there annually on the 8th of May. This festival is said to be of very ancient origin, and is called "The Furry"--an old Cornish word, signifying a gathering; and, at Helston particularly, a gathering in celebration of the return of spring. The Furry begins early in the morning with singing, to an accompaniment of drums and kettles. All the people in the town immediately leave off work and scamper into the country; having reached which, they scamper back again, garlanded with leaves and flowers, and caper about hand-in-hand through the streets, and in and out of all the houses, without let or hindrance. Even the "genteel" resident families allow themselves to be infected with the general madness, and wind up the day's capering consistently enough by a night's capering at a grand ball. A full account of these extraordinary absurdities may be found in Polwhele's "History of Cornwall."

But, though thus uninteresting in itself, Helston must be visited by every tourist in Cornwall for the sake of the grand, the almost unrivalled scenery to be met with near it. The town is not only the best starting-point from which to explore the noble line of coast rocks which ends at the Lizard Head; but possesses the further recommendation of lying in the immediate vicinity of the largest lake in Cornwall--Loo Pool.

The banks of Loo Pool stretch on either side to the length of two miles; the lake, which in summer occupies little more than half the space that it covers in winter, is formed by the flow of two or three small streams. You first reach it from Helston, after a walk of half a mile; and then see before you, on either hand, long ranges of hills rising gently from the water's edge, covered with clustering trees, or occupied by wide cornfields and sloping tracts of common land. So far, the scenery around Loo Pool resembles the scenery around other lakes; but as you proceed, the view changes in the most striking and extraordinary manner. Walking on along the winding banks of the pool, you taste the water and find it soft and fresh, you see ducks swimming about in it from the neighbouring farm-houses, you watch the rising of the fine trout for which it is celebrated--every object tends to convince you that you are wandering by the shores of an inland lake--when suddenly at a turn in the hill slope, you are startled by the shrill cry of the gull, and the fierce roar of breakers thunders on your ear--you look over the light grey waters of the lake, and behold, stretching immediately above and beyond them, the expanse of the deep blue ocean, from which they are only separated by a strip of smooth white sand!

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