.* - ° * * k o i/7/SK\\V * ^o x ■4 O /s^XtfO ^ & * * * .* o- ."» v dtaim*. <• i V ^ * j •;«***: V/ .. -A^AiS** A. L THE LAND'S END if /..p.] - jMt&t*^ *W*to>Mte**ft IN THE HARBOUR, ST. IVKS Frontispiece THE LAND'S END A NATURALIST'S IMPRESSIONS IN WEST CORNWALL BY W; H. HUDSON WITH FORTY-NINE ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. L. COLLINS NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1908 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. Wintering in West Cornwall II. Gulls at St. Ives . III. Cornwall's Connemara IV. Old Cornish Hedges V. BOLERIUM : THE END OF ALL THE Land VI. Castles by the Sea . VII. The British Pelican VIII. Bird Life in Winter IX. The People and the Farms . • X. An Impression of Penzance . XI. Manners and Morals • XII. Cornish Humour . XIII. The Poetic Spirit . XIV. Winter Aspects and a Bird Vii 3ITATIC XV. A Great Frost • XVI. A Native Naturalist . XVII. The Coming of Spring XVIII. Some Early Flowers • XIX. The Furze in its Glory XX. Pilgrims at the Land's End Index • PACE I • I0 • 29 • 39 ■ 5o • *3 • 74 • 89 . 102 . 121 • 135 • J 53 • 179 . 204 . 222 . 240 . 261 • 275 • 293 • 3°3 • 3*9 About a fourth part of the matter contained in this volume has appeared in the Saturday Review and the Speaker, and I am obliged to the editors of those journals for their per- mission to use it here. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Tn the Harbour, St. Ives . Frontispiece Boats at St. Ives i Court Cocking, St. Ives 4 Gossips 9 An Old Street in St. Ives 13 Jackdaws 17 Gulls at St. Ives 19 A Cornish Fisherman 21 v Gulls at St. Ives Facing page 22 Fishermen 25 Ivy on Rocks . . 29 A Cornish Stile 32 Stone Hedge . • 39 Hedge at St. Ives • 47 Near Land's End 50, 53 ^Land's End Facing page 58 Fishermen . . 6 3 The Logan Rock . . 69 'Gurnard's Head Facing page 70 Gurnard's Head • 74 Gulls on the Rocks . . 89 x Donkeys on the Moor . Facing page 92 People at the Farm 102 The Cornish Celt 106 Vlll LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Cornish Farm-house Facing page 1 14 Cornish Farm-houses . 115 Penzance . 121 Market Jew Street . 123 Newlyn • 135 Mousehole • H3 Small Farm . . 153 Cornish Peasant . 161 Cornish Woman . 167 Norway Lane, St. Ives • 177 Stile at Sennen . 179 Cornish Labourer . 191 Rocks at Zennor . 204 Old Houses, St. Ives . 213 Zennor . 222 ' Zennor Facing page 224 Sandhills . 240 Cormorants . 261 Carting Bracken • 275 Furze . 293 Sennen Cove . • 303 -Old Farm, Land's End. Fu/i fig page 304 Near Sennen Cove . 309 Rocks at Land's End • 317 THE LAND'S END CHAPTER I WINTERING IN WEST CORNWALL England's " observables " — Why I delayed visiting Cornwall — A vision of the Land's End — Flight to St. Ives — Climate — The old town — The fishermen— Their love of children — Drowned babes — The fishing fleet going out at sunset — Old memories sug- gested — Jackdaws at St. Ives — Feeding the birds — A greedy sheep-dog — Daws show their intelligence — Daws on the roofs — Their morning pastime — Dialogue between two daws. K NOW," said wise old Fuller, most of the before thou rooms of thy native country goest over the threshold thereof. Especially seeing England presents thee with so many observ- ables." But if we were to follow this advice there would be no getting out of the country at all. It is too rich in its way : the rooms are too many and too well-furnished with observables. Take my case. I have been going on rambles about the land for a good many years, and though the West Country had the 2 THE LAND'S END greatest attraction for me, I never got over the Tamar, nor even so far as Plymouth, simply because 1 had not the time, albeit my time was my own. Or be- cause there was enough and more than enough to satisfy me on this side of the boundary. It is true that one desires to see and know all places, but is in no hurry to go from a rich to a poor one. I was told by every one of my friends that it was the most interest- ing county in England, and doubtless it is so to them, but I knew it could not be so to me because of the comparative poverty of the fauna, seeing that the observables which chiefly draw me are the living creatures — the wild life — and not hills and valleys and granite and serpentine cliffs and seas of Mediterranean blue. These are but the setting of the shining living gems, and we know the finest of these, which gave most lustre to the scene, have been taken out and cast away. Cornwall to me was just the Land's End — " dark Bolerium, seat of storms " — that famous foreland of which a vast but misty picture formed in childhood remains in the mind, and if I ever felt any strong desire to visit Cornwall it was to look upon that scene. Then came a day in November, 1905, when, having settled to go away somewhere for a season, I all at once made up my mind to visit the unknown pen- insula and to go straight away to the very end. It almost astonished me when I alighted from my train at St. Ives to think I had travelled three hundred and twenty odd miles with less discomfort and weariness than I usually experience on any journey of a hundred. WINTERING IN WEST CORNWALL 3 It is common, I think, for lovers of walking to dislike the railway. So smoothly had I been carried in this flight to the furthest west that I might have been sailing in a balloon ; and as for the time occupied it would surely be no bad progress for a migrating bird, travelling, let us say, from Middlesex to Africa, to cover the distance I had come in a little more than seven hours ! St. Ives is on the north side of the rounded western extremity of Cornwall, and from the little green hill, called the " Island," which rises above and partly shelters the town, you look out upon the wide Atlan- tic, the sea that has always a trouble on it and that cannot be quiet ; and standing there with the great waves breaking on the black granite rocks at your feet, they will tell you that there is no land between you and America. Nevertheless, after London, I wanted no better climate ; for though it rained heavily on many days in December and the wind blew with tremendous force, the temperature was singularly mild, with an agreeable softness in the air and sunshine breaking out on the cloudiest days. The weather could be described as " delicate " with tempestuous intervals. On bright, windless days I saw the peacock butterfly abroad and heard that idle song of the corn bunting, associated in our minds with green or yellow fields and sultry weather. I was still more surprised one day late in December at meeting with a lively wheatear, flitting from stone to stone near the Land's End. This one had discovered that it was not necessary to fly all the way to North 4 THE LAND'S END Africa to find a place to winter in. Early in February I found the adder abroad. The town, viewed from the outside — the old fish- ing town, which does not include the numerous COURT COCKING, ST. IVES villas, terraces, and other modern erections on the neighbouring heights — appears very small indeed. It is small, for when you once master its intricacies you can walk through from end to end in about five or WINTERING IN WEST CORNWALL 5 six minutes. But the houses are closely packed, or rather jumbled together with the narrowest and crook- edest streets and courts in which to get about or up and down. They have a look of individuality, like a crowd of big rough men pushing and elbowing one another for room, and you can see how this haphazard condition has come about when you stumble by chance on a huge mass of rock thrusting up out of the earth among the houses. There was, in fact, just this little sheltered depression in a stony place to build upon, and the first settlers, no doubt, set their houses just where and how they could among the rocks, and when more room was wanted more rocks were broken down and other houses added until the town as we find it resulted. It is all rude and irregular, as if produced by chance or nature, and altogether reminds one of a rabbit warren or the interior of an ants' nest. It cannot be nice to live in such a warren or rook- ery, except to those who were born in it ; nevertheless it is curiously attractive, and I, although a disliker of towns or congeries of houses, found a novel pleasure in poking about it, getting into doorways and chance openings to be out of the way of a passing cart which as a rule would take up the whole width of the street. Outside the houses hung the wet oilskins and big sea- boots to dry, and at the doors women with shawls over their heads stand gossiping. W T hen the men are asleep or away and the children at school these appear to be the only inhabitants, except the cats. You find one at every few yards usually occupied with the head of a mackerel or herring. The appearance was 6 THE LAND'S END perhaps even better by night when the narrow crooked ways are very dark except at some rare spot where a lamp casts a mysterious light on some quaint old corner building and affords a glimpse into a dimly- seen street beyond ending in deep gloom. In this nest or hive are packed about eight hundred fishermen with their wives and children, their old fathers and mothers, and other members of the com- munity who do not go in the boats. The fishermen are the most interesting in appearance ; it is a relief, a positive pleasure to see in England a people clothed not in that ugly dress which is now so universal, but in one suitable to their own life and work — their ponderous sea-boots and short shirt-shaped oilies of many shades of colour from dirty white and pale yellow to deep reds and maroons. In speech and manners they are rough and brusque, and this, too, like their dress and lurching gait, comes, as it were, by nature ; for of all occupations, this of wresting a poor and precarious livelihood from the wind- vexed seas under the black night skies in their open boats is assuredly the hardest and most trying to a man's temper. The navvy and the quarryman, the labourer on the land, here where the land is half rock, even the tin-miner deep down in the bowels of the earth, have a less discomfortable and anxious life. That they are not satisfied with it one soon discovers ; Canada calls them, and Africa, and other distant lands, and unhappily, as in most places, it is always the best men that go. Possibly this accounts for the change for the worse in the people which some have WINTERING IN WEST CORNWALL 7 noted in recent years. Nevertheless they are a good people still, righteous in their own peculiar way, and so independent that in bad times, as when the fishing fails, hunger and cold are more endurable to them than charity. They are a clannish people, and it is conse- quently not to be wondered at that they have no sub- scription clubs or friendly societies of any kind to aid them in times of want and sickness such as are now almost universal among the working classes. These benefits of our civilisation will doubtless come to them in time : then their clannishness — the old " One and All " spirit of Cornishmen generally — being no longer needed, will decay. It is after all but another word for solidarity, the strong, natural, or family bond which unites the members of a community which was once, in ruder ages, everywhere, to make social life possible, and has survived here solely because of Cornwall's isolated position. Unfortu- nately we cannot make any advance — cannot gain anything anywhere without a corresponding loss somewhere. Will it be better for this people when the change comes — when the machine we call " civili- sation " has taken the place of the spirit of mutual help in the members of the community ? 'Tis an idle question, since we cannot have two systems of life. At present, in our " backward " districts, we have two, but they are in perpetual conflict, and one must overcome the other ; and if there be any beauti- ful growths in the old and unfit, which is passing away, they must undoubtedly perish with it. One of the most pleasing traits of the Cornish 8 THE LAND'S END people, which is but one manifestation of the spirit I have been speaking about, is their love for little children. Nowhere in the kingdom, town or country, do you see a brighter, happier, better-dressed company of small children than here in the narrow stony ways of the old fishing town. The rudest men exhibit a strange tenderness towards their little ones ; and not only their own, since they regard all children with a kind of parental feeling. An incident which occurred in the early part of December, and its effects on the people, may be given here as an illustration. One morning when the boats came in it was reported that one of the men had been lost. " Poor fellow ! " was all that was said about it. And that is how it is all the world over among men who have dangerous occu- pations : the loss of a comrade is a not uncommon experience, and the shock is very slight and quickly vanishes. But there was no such indifference when, two or three days later, one of the herring-boats brought in the corpse of a small child which had been fished up in the Bay — a pretty little well-nourished boy, decently dressed, aged about two years and a half. Where the child belonged and how it came to be in the sea was not discovered until long afterwards, but the intensity of the feeling displayed was a surprise to me. For several days little else was talked of both in St. Ives and the villages and farms in the neighbourhood, and they talked of it, both men and women, with tears in their voices as though the death of this unknown child had been a personal loss. This incident served to recall others, of St. Ives WINTERING IN WEST CORNWALL 9 children lost and drowned in past years, especially this very pathetic one of three little things who went out to pick flowers one afternoon and were lost. They were two sisters, aged eight and nine respec- tively, and their little brother, about six or seven J GOSSIPS years old. They rambled along the rough heath by Carbis Bay to the Towans, near Lelant, where, climb- ing about among the sand-hills, they lost all sense of direction. There meeting a man who spoke roughly to them and ordered them home they became terrified and ran away to the sea-front, and, climbing down the io THE LAND'S END cliff, hid themselves in a cave they found there. By and by it began to grow dark, and there were sounds above as of loud talking and shouts and of a galloping horse, all which added to their fear and caused them to go further into their dark wet house of refuge. They did not know, poor children, that the cries were uttered by those who were seeking for them ! After dark the tide rose and covered the sandy floor of the cave, and to escape it they climbed on to a rocky shelf where they could keep dry, and there huddled together to keep warm, and being very tired, they eventually fell asleep. In the morning when it grew light the sisters woke, stiff and cold, to find that their poor little brother had fallen from the ledge in his sleep and had been carried out by the sea. His body was recovered later. The two survivors, now middle-aged women, still live in the town. The most interesting hour of the day at St. Ives was in the afternoon or evening, the time depending on the tide, when the men issued from their houses and came lurching down the little crooked stone streets and courts to the cove or harbour to get the boats out for the night's fishing. It is a very small harbour in the corner of the bay — a roughly shaped half-moon with two little stone piers for horns, with just room enough inside to accommodate the fleet of about 150 boats. The best spectacle is when they are taken out at or near sunset in fair weather, when the subdued light gives a touch of tenderness and mystery to sea and sky, and the boats, singly, in twos and threes, and in groups of half a dozen, drift out from WINTERING IN WEST CORNWALL n the harbour and go away in a kind of procession over the sea. The black forms on the moving darkening: water and the shapely deep-red sails glowing in the level light have then a beauty, an expression, which comes as a surprise to one unaccustomed to such a scene. The expression is due to association — to vague suggestions of a resemblance in this to other scenes. We may be unable to recall them ; the feeling returns but without the mental image of the scene which originally produced it. It was not until I had watched the boats going out on two or three successive evenings that an ancient memory returned to me. Sitting or walking by the margin of some wide lake or marsh in a distant land, I am watching a com- pany of birds of some large majestic kind— stork, wood-ibis, or flamingo — standing at rest in the shallow water, which reflects their forms. By and by one of the birds steps out of the crowd and moves leisurely away, then, slowly unfolding his broad wings, launches himself on the air and goes off, flying very low over the water. Another follows, then, after an interval, another, then still others, in twos and threes and half- dozens, until the last bird has opened his wings and the entire flock is seen moving away in a loose pro- cession over the lake. Just in that way did the crowd of boats move by degrees from their resting-place, shake out their wing-like sails, and stream away over the sea. That was one scene ; there were faint suggestions of many others, only a few of which I could recover ; one was of large, dark red-winged butterflies, seen at 12 THE LAND'S END rest with closed wings, congregated on wind-swayed reeds and other slender plants. It was the shape and deep red colour of the sails and the way they hung from the masts and cordage which restored this butterfly picture to my mind. And in every instance in which a resemblance could be traced it turned out to be to some natural and invariably to a beautiful object or scene. The spectacle had, in fact, that charm, which is so rare in man's work, of something wholly natural, which fits into the scene and is part and parcel with nature itself. In buildings we get a similar effect at the two extremes — in the humblest and the highest work of man's hands ; in the small old thatched and rose- and creeper-covered cottage in perfect harmony with its surroundings, and in ancient majestic castles and cathedrals, in which the sharp lines and contours have been blurred by decay of the material and the whole surface weathered and stained with lichen and alga and in many cases partially draped with ivy. It struck me before I had been long in St. Ives that, in spite of the delightful mildness of the climate and the charm of the place, nobody but myself was winter- ing there. The lodging-houses were quite empty ; the people were the natives or else the artists, who form a pretty numerous colony. The few others to be seen were visitors for the day from Penzance, Falmouth, or some other spot in the " Cornish Riviera." This was not a cause of regret, seeing there were birds for society, especially that old fav- ourite, the jackdaw. Doubtless he is to be seen there AN OLD STREET IN ST. IVES i 4 THE LAND'S END all the year round as he is so common a town bird all over the country, but at St. Ives many of the cliff- breeding daws settle down regularly for the winter and exist very comfortably on the fish and other refuse thrown into the streets. Very soon I estab- lished a sort of friendship with a few of these birds ; for birds I must have, in town or country — free birds I mean, as the captive bird only makes me melancholy — and in winter I feed them whether they are in want or not. It is an old habit of mine, first practised in early life in June and July, the cold winter months in the southern hemisphere, in a land where the English sparrow was not. Now, unhappily, he is there and a great deal too abundant. I fed a better sparrow in those vanished days, smaller and more prettily shaped than our bird, with a small crest on his head and a sweet delicate little song. But in England one really gets far more pleasure from feeding the birds on account of the number of different species which are willing to be our pensioners. At St. Ives I first stayed at a house in The Terrace facing the sea-front, and there were no gardens there, so that I had to feed them out in the road. First there were only sparrows, then a pair of jackdaws turned up, and soon others joined them until I had about a score of them. By and by a very big shaggy sheep-dog, belonging to a carter, discovered that there was food to be got at eight o'clock at that spot in the road, and he too came very punctually every day and thoughtlessly gobbled it all up himself. After two or three days of this sort of thing, I felt that it ought not to be allowed WINTERING IN WEST CORNWALL 15 to continue, and as the daws were of the same mind and loyally seconded my efforts to stop it we were soon successful. My plan was to go out and scatter the scraps and crusts far and wide over the road, and while the greedy dog galloped about from crust to crust the daws, hovering overhead, dropped down and snatched them one by one away before he could reach them. Later, when leaving St. Ives, I asked the landlady to explain to the birds on the following morning the reason of there being nothing for them, and to request them to go quietly away. They were very intelligent, I said, and would understand ; but on my return, a month later, she said they had not understood the message, or had not believed her, as they had con- tinued to come for several mornings, and had seemed very much put out. It was plain they had kept an eye on that house during my absence, for on going out with scraps on the morning after my return they promptly reappeared in full force on the scene. There are few persons to feed the birds in those parts, and those few, I fancy, are mostly visitors from other counties. It amused me to see how the natives regarded my action ; the passer-by would stop and examine the scraps or crusts, then stare at me, and finally depart with a puzzled expression on his coun- tenance, or perhaps smiling at the ridiculous thing he had witnessed. The following winter (1906-7) 1 found a lodging in another part of the town, in a terrace rather high up, where I could look from my window at the Bay 1 6 THE LAND'S END over the tiled roofs of the old town. Here I had a front garden to feed the birds in, and, better still, the entire jackdaw population of St. Ives, living on the roofs as is their custom, were under my eyes and could be observed very comfortably. 1 discovered that they filled up a good deal of their vacant time each morning in visiting the chimneys from which smoke issued, just to inform themselves, as it seemed, what was being cooked for breakfast. This was their pas- time and watching them was mine. Numbers of daws would be seen, singly, in pairs, and in groups of three or four to half a dozen, sitting on the roofs all over the place. As the morning progressed and more and more chimneys sent out smoke, they would become active visiting the chimneys, where, perching on the rims, they would put their heads down to get the smell rising from the pot or frying-pan on the fire below. If a bird remained long perched on a chim- ney-pot, his neighbours would quickly conclude that he had come upon a particularly interesting smell and rush off" to share it with him. When the birds were too many there would be a struggle for places, and occasionally it happened that a puff of dense black smoke would drive them all off together. A dozen incidents of this kind could be witnessed any morning, and I was as much entertained as if I had been observing not birds but a lot of lively, tricky little black men with grey pates inhabiting the roofs. One morning when watching a pair perched facing each other on a chimney-top their movements and gestures made me imagine that 1 knew just what WINTERING IN WEST CORNWALL 17 they were saying. First one leaning over the rim would thrust his head down into the smoke and keep it there some time, the other would follow suit, then JACKDAWS pulling themselves up they would stare at each other for half a minute, then poke their heads down again. " A funny smell that ! " one says. " I can't quite make it out, and yet I seem to know what it is." 1 8 THE LAND'S END " Red herring," suggests the other. " Nonsense ! I know that smell well enough. But I grant you it's just a little like it, only — what shall I say ? — this is a thicker sort of smell." " I'll just have another good sniff," says the second bird. " H'm ! I wonder if it's some very old pil- chards they've found stowed away in some corner ? " " No," says the first bird, pulling his head out of the smoke and blinking his wicked little grey eyes. " It isn't pilchards. Just one more sniff. I've got it ! A very old piece of dry salted conger they're broiling on the coals." " By Jove, you're right this time ! It is a good thick smell ! I only wish I could drop down the flue, snatch up that bit of conger, and get clear away with it." " You'd soon have a jolly lot of jacks after you, I fancy. Hullo ! what are those fellows making such a to-do about — down there on that chimney-pot ? Let's go and find out." And away they fly, to drop down and fight for places among the others. /***£' CHAPTER II GULLS AT ST. IVES Gulls in fishing harbours — Their numbers and beautiful appearance at St. Ives— Different species — Robbing the fishermen — How they are regarded — The Glaucous gull or Burgomaster — Cause of the fishermen's feeling— A demonstration of hungry gulls — A gull tragedy. TO a bird lover the principal charm of St. Ives is in its gull population. Gulls greatly out- number all the other wild birds of the town and harbour put together, and though they have not the peculiar fascination of the jackdaw, which is due to that bird's intelligence and amusing rascalities, they are very much more beautiful. Of all feathered creatures gulls are ever the quickest to discover food thrown accidentally in their way by man. In many lands, crows, vultures, carrion hawks, and omnivorous feeders generally acquire the habit of watching the movements of the human hunter and of travellers in desert places for the sake of his leavings. '9 20 THE LAND'S END In the gulls this habit is universal ; their " wide eyes that search the sea " have discovered that where there is a ship or boat something may be picked up by following it, and in all lands where there is a plough to share the soil the plougher is pretty sure to have a following of gulls at his heels. In harbours they are much at home, but are especially attracted to a fishing town, and it would be hard to find one where they make a better appearance than at St. Ives. But not solely on account of their numbers and tameness, since they congregate at all fishing stations and are just as tame and abundant elsewhere. At St. Ives they make a better show because of the picturesque character of the place itself — the small harbour, open to the wide blue bay and the Atlantic, crowded with its forest of tall slim masts resembling a thick grove of larches in winter, while for back- ground there is the little old town, its semicircle of irregular quaint and curious stone-grey and tile-red buildings. The gulls that congregate here are of several kinds: on most days one can easily count five species, the most abundant being the herring and the lesser black- backed gulls, and with them you generally see one or two great black-backs. Then there are the two small species, the common and the black-headed gull. These, when it comes to a general scramble for the small fishes and other waste, are mere pickers-up of unconsidered trifles on the outskirts of the whirlwind of wings, the real fighting area, and their guttural cries — a familiar sound to Londoners in winter — are GULLS AT ST. IVES 21 drowned in the tempest of hard, piercing, and grinding metallic noises emitted by the bigger birds. All this noise and fury and scurry of wings of innumerable white forms, mixed up with boats and busy shouting men, comes to be regarded by the people concerned as a necessary part of the whole business, and the bigger the bird crowd and the louder the uproar the better they appear to like it. For their gulls are very dear to them. One morning when looking on and enjoying the noisy scene, I saw one of the smaller boats left unatten- ded by the men. They had thrown a canvas over the fish, but this the gulls soon succeeded in pulling aside ; then those overhead converging poured down in the form of a white column, and the boat was covered from stem to stern with a mass of birds madly fighting for the herrings. The men in other boats close by looked on and laughed ; by and by they began shout- ing, but this had no effect, and the struggling and feasting went on until the master of the boat returned ftic A CORNISH FISHERMAN 22 THE LAND'S END and scared them off". He said afterwards that they had devoured half his catch, yet the men who had been standing by looking on had made no real attempt to save the fish. The gulls know their friends very well ; with the man in sea-boots and oilskins they are tamer than any domestic bird ; they will take food from his hands and love to settle to rest on the boats and to sit perched like swallows on the mast top. They have not the same confidence towards strangers, and they positively dislike small boys. When boys appear they fly away to a distance. One evening, the men being out of sight, I found three urchins amusing themselves by throwing stones at a few small gulls flying about the sand in search of scraps. " What would you get," I asked them, " if one of the men caught you stoning the gulls ? " " Oh ! " cried the biggest of the three, drawing his head down between his shoulders in a most expressive way, "we'd get our ears well cuffed." " Very well," 1 said, " I'm here in their place to-day to look after the birds." In a moment they dropped their stones and taking to their heels vanished in a neighbouring court. Yet these very boys in a few years' time, when they will be in the boats too, will have the same feeling as the men, and be ready to inflict the severest punish- ment on any youngster they may catch throwing a pebble at one of their sacred birds ! One day I caught sight of a large ivory-white gull of an unknown species sitting on the water some distance from the shore, and was very anxious to see GULLS AT ST. IVES To face page 22 GULLS AT ST. IVES 23 more of this bird. Two or three days later I was with an artist friend in his studio, and was standing at the window which looks upon a sandy cove at the back of the town. By and by a wave of the incom- ing tide threw up a dead dogfish about three feet long on the white sand within fifty yards of the window. Scarcely was the fish left by the retiring water before a big white-winged gull dropped down upon it — the very bird I had been hoping to encoun- ter again ! There it remained, trying to tear a hole in the tough skin, fully five minutes before the re- turning water took the fish away, so that I had a good chance of examining it through a binocular. It was considerably bigger than the herring gull, with a much more formidable beak and altogether a bolder appearance, and the entire plumage was of a chalky white. It was a Glaucous gull — the famous Burgo- master of the Arctic Sea, probably a female in im- mature plumage. In a few moments other gulls dropped down to get a bite — three herring and one black-backed gull with some smaller gulls — but they were not allowed to taste the fish. When one attempted to come near it the white gull looked fixedly at him a couple of moments, then drawing in its head suddenly tipped its beak upwards — an expressive gull gesture corresponding to the snarl of a dog when he is feeding and other dogs approach him. It produced a marked effect on the other gulls; perhaps the Burgomaster, a rare visitor to our seas, was known, from hearsay, to them as a great tyrant. Talking of this noble stranger to one of the fisher- 24 THE LAND'S END men, I remarked that if a bird collector happened to be about he would certainly have that bird even if compelled to fire into the whole crowd of gulls to kill it. "Then," he returned, "perhaps our men would kill him ! " The curious point is that this feeling should exist and be so strong in a people who have little or no regard for birds generally. The most religious of men, they are at the same time the least humane. The gull they tell you is the fisherman's friend ; but other sea-birds, which he kills without compunction — the gannet, for instance — are useful to him in the same way as the gull. They also say that the gulls keep the harbour sweet and clean ; an explanation probably invented for them by some stranger within their gates. The fact is, they cherish an affection for the gulls, though they refuse to confess it, and, being what they are by race, this feeling has ac- quired the character of a superstition. To injure a gull wilfully is to invite disaster. It may be that the origin of the feeling is simply the fact that gulls gather in vociferous crowds round the boats and in the harbour when the fishing has prospered, and in this way become associated in the fisherman's mind with all those agreeable ideas or images and emotions connected with a good catch— smiles and cheerful words of greeting in the home, with food in abun- dance, money for the rent and for needed clothes and other good things for the little ones. On the other hand we may have here a survival of an older superstition, a notion that gulls are in some GULLS AT ST. IVES 25 degree supernatural beings, perhaps drowned mariners and fishermen returned in bird forms to haunt their ancient homes and associate with their human fellow- creatures. The feeling is certainly very strong : I was told that some of the fishermen even in their times of greatest scarcity will always manage at meal- time to put a few crusts and scraps of food into their pockets to throw to the gulls in the harbour. FISHERMEN From all this it might appear that the gulls at St. Ives are having an exceedingly good time, but they are not wholly happy — not happy every day, as they very soon let me know. The fishermen, like the Cornish people generally, are strict Sabbatarians, and from Friday night or Saturday morning, when the boats come in, they do not go out again until the following Monday evening. In a neighbouring fish- 26 THE LAND'S END ing village the boats are taken out at the stroke of twelve on Sunday night. The St. Ives men do not like to run it so fine, and the gulls are never able to understand this long break in the fishing. On the Saturday, after feeding, they retire to the sea and the rocks, where they pass the day comfortably enough, sitting with beaks to the wind and digesting a plenti- ful meal. On Sunday morning they congregate in the harbour with empty stomachs only to find the boats lying empty and idle and all the men away; they do not like it, but they put up with it, and by and by loiter off to pick up what they can for themselves, or to wait patiently on the sea and the rocks, through another long twenty-four hours. On Monday morning they are very hungry indeed, and come in with stomachs that scream for food. They come in their thousands, and still nothing for them — the boats lying empty and idle, the men still at home in bed and no movement in the harbour ! They cannot and they will not endure it. Then begins a tremendous demonstration of the unem- ployed. On my first Monday I was roused from slumber before daylight by the uproar. It was not now that tempest and tangle of broken, squealing and grinding metallic noises emitted by the big gulls when they are in numbers fighting over their food, it was the loud long wailing call of the bird, incessantly repeated, a thousand wailing like one, and at intervals the dreary laughter-like chorus of short reiterated cries ; then again the insistent wailing calls. When it became light they could be seen as a white cloud GULLS AT ST. IVES 27 hanging over the harbour, the birds moving round and round over the idle boats in endless procession, and this went on for about an hour, when, finding that nothing came of it all, they went sadly away. On yet another morning I was awakened before daylight, but this was a happy occasion, the boats having come in during the small hours laden with the biggest catch of the season. The noise of the birds made me get up and dress in a hurry to go and find out what it was all about. For an hour and a half I stood at the end of the little stone pier watch- ing the cloud and whirlwind of vociferous birds, and should have remained longer but for a singular acci- dent — a little gull tragedy — which brought a sudden end to the feast. The men in fifty boats while occu- pied in disengaging the fish from the nets were con- tinually throwing the small useless fishes away, and these, falling all round in the water, brought down a perpetual rush and rain of gulls from overhead ; everywhere they were frantically struggling on the water, while every bird rising with a fish in his beak was instantly swooped down upon and chased by the others. Now one of the excited birds while rushing down by chance struck a rope or spar and fell into the water at the side of a boat, about forty yards from where I was standing. It was a herring gull in mature plumage, and its wing was broken. The bird could not understand this ; it made frantic efforts to rise, but the whole force exerted being in one wing merely caused it to spin rapidly round and round. These struggles eventually caused the shat- 28 THE LAND'S END tered bone to break through the skin ; the blood began to flow and redden the plumage on one side. This was again and again washed off in the succeed- ing struggles to rise, but every time a pause came the feathers were reddened afresh. At length the poor thing became convinced that it could no longer fly, that it could only swim, and at once ceasing to struggle it swam away from the boats and out to- wards the open bay. Hardly had it gone a dozen yards from the boat-side where it had fallen before some of the gulls flying near observed it for the first time, and dropping to within three or four yards of the surface hovered over it. Then a strange thing happened. Instantly, as if a shot had been fired to silence them, the uproar in the harbour ceased ; the hundreds of gulls fighting on the water rose up simultaneously to join the cloud of birds above, and the whole concourse moved silently away in one direction, forming a dense crowd above the wounded bird. In this formation, suspended at a height of about thirty yards over and moving with him, they travelled slowly out into the middle of the bay. The silence and stillness in the harbour seemed strange after that tempest of noise and motion, for not a bird had remained behind, nor did one return for at least half an hour ; then in small companies they began to straggle back to resume the interrupted feast. CHAPTER III CORNWALL'S CONNEMARA Aspect of the country — Gilpin on Cornish scenery — The farm-houses — Footpaths and stiles — Cattle and pigs — A friendly sow— Dogs and foxes — Stony fields — Farmers' love of their holdings — An old farmer. THE coast country at the end or the western extremity of Cornwall presents an aspect wild and rough as any spot in England. The eighty-miles-long county, which some one compares to a malformed knobbly human leg in shape, narrows down near its termination to a neck or ankle of land no more than six or seven miles wide, with St. Ives Bay on one (the north) side, and Mount's Bay on the other, with its group of places of famous or familiar names — Mousehole, Newlyn, Penzance, Marazion and St. Michael's Mount. Then the land broadens again, forming that rounded bit of country, the 29 30 THE LAND'S END westernmost part of England, containing seventy-five or eighty square miles of hilly and moorland country, in great part treeless, with a coastline, from bay to bay, of about thirty miles. Following the coast, one does not wish them more : the most enthusiastic lover of an incult nature, who delights in forcing his way over rocky barriers and through thickets of furze, bogs and rills innumerable, will find these thirty miles as satisfying as any sixty elsewhere. And the roughest, therefore most exhilarating, portion of the coast is that between St. Ives and Land's End, a dis- tance of about twenty miles. This strip of country has been called the Connemara of Cornwall. William Gilpin, that grand old seeker after the picturesque at the end of the eighteenth century, once journeyed into Cornwall, but got no further than Bodmin, as he saw nothing but " a barren and naked country, in all respects as uninteresting as can well be conceived," and he was informed that west of Bodmin it was no better. It is, indeed, worse, and one wonders what his feelings would have been had he persevered to the very end — to rough "Connemara" and flat, naked Bolerium ! His strictures on the scenery would have amused the present generation. For all that repelled Gilpin and those of his time in nature, the barren or " undecorated," as he would say, the harsh and savage and unsuited to human beings, now most attracts us. And of all places inhabited by man this coast country is the most desert-like and desolate in appearance. The black, frowning, wave-beaten cliffs on the one hand, the hills and moors on the other, treeless, CORNWALL'S CONNEMARA 31 strewn abundantly with granite boulders, rough with heath and furze and bracken, the summits crowned with great masses of rock resembling ancient ruined castles. Midway between the hills and the sea, halt a mile or so from the cliffs, are the farms, but the small houses and walled fields on the inhabited strip hardly detract from the rude and savage aspect of the country. Nature will be Nature here, and man, like the other inhabitants of the wilderness, has adapted himself to the conditions. The badgers have their earths, the foxes their caverns in the rocks, and the linnet, yellow-hammer, and magpie hide their nests, big and little, in the dense furze bushes : he in like manner builds his dwelling small and low, shelter- ing as best he can in any slight depression in the ground, or behind thickets of furze and the rocks he piles up. The small naked stone farm-house, with its little outbuildings, corn - stacks, and wood piles huddling round it, seem like a little flock of goats drawn together for company and shelter in some rough desert place on a cold windy day. Looking from a hill-top on one of the small groups of buildings — and in some instances two or three farms have clubbed their houses together for better protection from the blast — they resemble toy houses, and you have the fancy that you could go down and pick them up and put them in your pocket. The coast road, running from village to village, winding much, now under now over the hills, comes close to some of the farms and leaves others at a distance ; but all these little human centres are united 32 THE LANDS END by a footpath across the fields. It is very pleasant to follow this slight track, this connecting thread, which brings to mind Richard Carew's account of the poor Cornish farmers of his time, three centuries ago, when he says that "amongst themselves they agree well and A CORNISH STILE company lovingly together." I recall, too, that some social rodents, that live in communities, in collections of burrows or villages, have a track of that kind lead- ing from village to village, worn by the feet of the little animals in visiting their neighbours. The fields being small you have innumerable stiles to cross in a five or a ten miles walk ; but they do not want climb- CORNWALL'S CONNEMARA 33 ing, as they are very nearly all of that Cornish type made with half a dozen or more large slabs of granite placed gridiron-wise almost flush with the ground. You step easily over the stones : but the cattle do not follow, since, owing to their inability to see just where their feet will be set, their legs would come down between the slabs. Cows are in most of the fields, the dairy being the main thing in these farms ; and next to the small Jersey-like cow, the native breed, the pig ranks in im- portance. It is pleasant to see the pigs in these parts, as they are allowed more liberty in the fields and about the house than they usually get in other places ; or, indeed, anywhere on this side of St. George's Channel. If not " the gintleman that pays the rint," the pig con- tributes a good deal towards it, and short of liberty to walk in at the front door and take his place in the family circle he has every consideration paid him. On going up to a farm-house one is sometimes obliged to get round or step over a pig lying comfortably in the path. One day, going to call on some friends who had taken lodgings at a small farm, I found a portly sow lying in the way a dozen yards or so from the front door. My friends were getting ready for a walk, and when we came out the sow got up and, placing herself at the side of the lady, set out with us. We all tried our best to turn her back, shouting indignantly at her and pushing her away with our sticks and boots, but all in vain — she would come. " I'm to blame," said the lady. " When we first came we had tea out of doors, and when this pig came up D 34 THE LAND'S END to look at us I foolishly gave her a slice of bread and butter and spoke kindly to her, and now 1 can't get away from her. I give her nothing, and 1 try to escape her attention, but she watches the door, and when she sees me with my things on she insists on keeping with me even if I walk miles. It is most inconvenient." It certainly was, and we carefully avoided the village for fear of remarks. Fowls, too, are reared in numbers, and it is a great grievance of the farmers that foxes must be religiously preserved along this coast where they cannot be hunted. Here, again, I am reminded of Carew's Survey of Cornwall, in which he writes : " The fox planteth his dwelling in the steep cliffs of the seaside, where he possesseth holds, so many in number, so dangerous of access, and so full of windings, as in a manner it falleth out a matter impossible to disseize him of his ancient inheritance." He still keeps it, and after three cen- turies is more secure in it than ever, since there is now no stronger law than this unwritten one which gives immunity to the fox. As a rule, several dogs are kept on the farm ; but he cares little for them. His fastness is close by in the cliffs, and between it and the farm there is a wilderness of furze bushes and stone fences, the ins and outs of which he knows better than the dogs. They cannot come near him. At one place the farmer's wife told me the foxes came about the house almost every night and started barking, whereupon the dogs barked in reply, and this would go on, bark fox, bark dog, by the hour, keeping them awake, CORNWALL'S CONNEMARA 35 until at last the dogs, tired of the useless contest, would go to sleep ; then the foxes would sneak in to see what they could pick up. There is very little cultivation — hardly more than is required for the use of the farm, and in many fields even this little is carried on under difficulties on account of the stones. The stones are taken out and piled on to the walls or hedges at the side, and though this process has been going on for centuries many boulders and huge blocks of granite still remain in the little fields. I was amused one day at the sight of a field of only about two acres on which I counted 135 stones appearing like huge mushrooms and toad- stools over the ground. Corn had been grown on it, and I asked the farmer how it was managed. He answered that he would laugh to see a man and horses from any other part of the country try to cultivate that field and others like it. Here the men are used to it, and horses know their part so well that if the share touches a stone they stop instantly and wait for the ploughman's word to move on. This same farmer told me that one day last summer a lady visitor staying in the neighbourhood came to where he was doing some work and burst out in praise of the place, and told him she envied him his home in the dearest, sweetest, loveliest spot on earth. "That's what you think, ma'am," he returned, " because you're here for a week or two in summer when it's fine and the heath in bloom. Now I think it's the poorest, ugliest, horriblest place in the whole 36 THE LAND'S END world, because I've got to live in it and get my living out of it." They certainly have to work hard to make the -£l per acre they have to pay for their stony fields. But they are a tough, industrious, frugal people, in many instances little removed from peasants in their way of living, and are strongly attached to their rude homes and rough country. If you tell them that their lot is exceedingly hard, that they pay too high a rent, and so on, enumerating all the drawbacks, they assent eagerly, and will put in many little touches to make the picture darker ; but if you then advise them to throw up their farms and migrate to some place you can name, in the Midlands say, where they will pay less for better land, and be out of the everlasting wind which tears every green leaf to shreds and makes their lives a perpetual discomfort, they shake their heads. They cannot endure the thought of leaving their homes. It is only the all but complete ruin of the tin-mining industry that has sent so many Cornishmen into exile in distant lands. But these wanderers are always thinking of home and come back when they can. One meets them every day, young and middle aged men, back from Africa, Australia, America ; not to settle down, since there is nothing for them to do — not just yet at all events ; but because they have saved a little and can afford to take that long journey for the joy of seeing the dear old faces again, and the dear familiar land which proved so uninteresting to the reverend author of Forest Scenery . CORNWALL'S CONNEMARA 37 But farming, unlike the mining and fishing indus- tries, cannot fail utterly, and so long as a living can be made out of it these men will stick to their farms. One brilliant spring-like day in midwinter I came upon an old man on the footpath at some distance from the nearest house, painfully walking to and fro on a clean piece of ground with the aid of two sticks. An old farmer, past work, I thought. His appearance greatly attracted me, for though his bent shrunken legs could hardly support him, he had a fine head and a broad, deep, powerful-looking chest. His face was of that intensely Irish type so common in West Cornwall, but more shapely, more noble, with a look of strength and resolution not at all common. Seeing that he was old I supposed he was deaf, and shouted my " Good day," and the remark that it was a very fine day. But there was no need to shout, his senses were very good. "Good day to you," he returned, his stone-grey stern eyes fixed on my face. " Yes, it is a fine day indeed — very, very fine. And no frost, no cold at all, and the winter going on, going on. We are getting on very well indeed." And to this subject he kept in spite of my attempts to lead the talk to something else. The lovely weather, the extraordinary mildness of the season, the comfort of a winter with no frost or cold at all — to that he would come back. And at length, when I said good-bye and left him, the last words I heard him say were, "Yes, the winter is going— very freely, very freely." 38 THE LAND'S END For he was old — his age was eighty-seven ; he had come to that time of life when the weather becomes strangely important to a man, when winter is a season of apprehension ; when he remembers that the days of our age are three-score years and ten, and though men be so strong that they come to four-score years, yet is their strength then but labour and sorrow, so soon passeth it away. I was told that he had farmed the land where I found him taking his constitutional since he was a young man ; that some months ago, on account of his infirmities, he had handed the farm over to one of his sons, and that he was still able to help a little in the work. His arms were strong still, and once up on the seat he could drive a cart or trap or reaping machine as well as any one. He was but one of several grey old men I met with on the farms, and it seemed to me that they were some- thing like their neighbour the badger, that they are as tenacious of their dreary-looking little homesteads and stony fields as that tough beast is of his earth among the rocks. CHAPTER IV OLD CORNISH HEDGES Hedges in England — Plant and animal life — Stone hedges in Corn- wall — Effect of wind on trees — How hedges are made — Appear- ance of stone hedges — An ancient hedge — Woody ivy — Signs of antiquity — An old man's testimony. EVERY one in England knows what a hedge is — a row of thorn or other hardy bushes originally planted to protect a field, which, when old and unkept, has the appearance and character of a brake or thicket. It consequently comes as a surprise when we first visit the remote and most un-English county of Cornwall to discover that a hedge there may mean something quite different. It puzzled me to read in a book on Cornwall that in some exceedingly rough places near the coast one found it easier to make one's way over the ground by climbing on to a hedge and walking along its top. 39 4 o THE LAND'S END The oldest, toughest, closest and most evenly-cut hedge one knows would hardly afford a safe footing for a man ; and as to attempting to get upon or walk on a big unkept hedge, such as are common in the south and west counties on this side the Tamar, the very thought of it is painful. In imagination one sees, and seeing feels, oneself stuck fast in a big bramble bush. In Cornwall I discovered that a stone wall was called a hedge — the sort of wall which in Scotland I had been taught to call a dyke. I did not like it so well as the English hedge, that wild dis- ordered tangle of all the most beautiful plants in these islands — black and white thorn ; privet with its small grape-like clusters ; yew and holly and ivy with late, honeyed blossoms for bees and wasps and hor- nets ; and briar and sweet-briar, bramble and briony ; also poisonous black briony and traveller's-joy, a green and silver tapestry ; and wayfaring tree, spindle- wood and cornel, with scarlet, purple and orange- coloured berries ; and dark deadly-nightshade, push- ing its slender stems up through the interlaced branches — all massed together for common protection like a packed herd of wild swine on their defence in some savage solitude, displaying bristling backs and bared gnashing tushes to a hostile world. They are — these wildings of the hedge — the counter- parts in the vegetable world of the creatures called "vermin "in the animal kingdom. In the recesses of their thorny intertwining boughs, and deep down among their tough ancient roots, the vermin, the banned ones, have their home and refuge — the quaint OLD CORNISH HEDGES 41 hedgehog and minute long-nosed shrew ; black and white magpie and chacking, tail-shaking butcher-bird ; adder and snake and slow-worm ; blood-sucking stoat and weasel with flat heads and serpentine bodies, and their small quarry, rats and voles and pretty sharp- nosed wood-mice with leaf-like ear, and winter sleep- ing dormice. It was fortunate that in the long ago, when our progenitors began to take plots of ground for culti- vation and pasture, they found out this cheap ready way of marking their boundaries and safe- guarding their cattle and corn. We may say they planted better than they knew : they planted once, and many and many a hedge — unnumbered miles and leagues of hedges — that are now great belts of thicket, were first planted by man in the remote past. Nature took over the thin row of thorn seedlings and made it what it is, not only the useful thing it was intended for — a natural barbed-wire entanglement — but a thing of beauty and a joy for ever. In West Cornwall, where I first came to know the native hedge, they cannot have these belts of thicket, rich in a varied plant and animal life. It is a country of moors and rugged stony hills where nothing flourishes but heath and furze and bracken. The farming folk have succeeded in long time in creating small arable and grass fields in the midst of this desolation, but they cannot grow trees on account of the violent winds charged with salt moisture that blow incessantly from the Atlantic. If the farmer plants a few trees so that he may one day eat an 42 THE LAND'S END apple of his own growing and sit in the shade, he must build a wall eight or ten feet high to protect them from the salt blast, and he may then die of old age before the apple is ripe or the shade created. Nor can he grow a hedge : the furze, it is true, abounds everywhere, but it is a most intractable plant that will go (or grow) its own wild way, and no man has yet subdued it to his will and made it serve as a hedge. Yet even in this wind-vexed land a few self- planted trees may be seen. You find them in the strip of farm country between the hills and sea, in hollows and under high banks, or where a mass of rock affords them shelter ; and they are mostly hawthorns and blackthorns with a few hardy bush-like trees of other kinds. They are like the trees and bushes on the most exposed coasts in Yorkshire and in other places, growing all one way, lying close to and sometimes actually on the ground, stretching out their branches and every twig towards the inland country. The sight of these wind- tormented, one-sided trees fascinates me and I stay long to look at them. A bristled tree With branches cedared by the salten gale, Stretched back, as if with wings that cannot flee, is how Gordon Hake describes the appearance, seeing, as I do, the desire and struggle to escape — to fly from that pitiless persecution. But the " wings " I do not see : in summer the foliage is to my sight but a ragged mantle ; in winter the human expression is strongest and most pathetic. Held by the feet in the grip of OLD CORNISH HEDGES 43 earth, the beaten bush strains to get away; it suggests the figure of a person crawling, or trying to crawl, the knee-like joints on the ground, the body-like trunk thrown forward, the long bare branches and terminal twigs, like the brown, thin naked arms and claw-like opened fingers of a starving scourged slave in the tropics, extended imploringly towards the land. This being the nature of the country the farmer can but hedge his land and fields with stone : he is in a measure compelled to do so, since the earth is full of it and the land strewn with boulders ; to make a field he must remove it and bestow it somewhere. Now after centuries of this process of removing and piling up stones, the farm land has become covered over with a network of these enduring hedges, or fences, inter- secting each other at all angles ; and viewed from a hill-top the country has the appearance of a patched quilt made of pieces of all sizes and every possible shape, and of all shades of green from darkest gorse to the delicate and vivid greens of the young winter grass. That half-reclaimed district, especially the strip of coast from St. Ives Bay to Cape Cornwall, was a good winter hunting ground, and I spent many weeks in ranging about the fields and waste or incult places among them. Here you can wander at will, without fear of hurting the farmer's feelings, as in Devonshire, by walking on his land. The cultivation is little, the fields being mostly grass : the small farm-house is out of sight somewhere behind the stone hedges ; it is rare to meet with a human being, and the few cows or 44 THE LAND'S END calves you occasionally come across follow you about as if only too pleased to have a visitor. Climbing over the next hedge into the next field you find nobody there but a pig who stares at you, then wel- comes you with a good-humoured grunt ; or an old solitary plough-horse ; or no semi-human domestic creature at all, only a crowd of busy starlings ; or starlings mixed with daws, field-fares, missel-thrushes and a few wagtails ; or a couple of magpies, or a small flock of wintering curlews to be found day after day on the same spot. After crossing two or three such fields you come upon an unreclaimed patch, or belt, where grey-lichened rocks are mixed with masses of old furze bushes, and heath and tussocks of pale brome-grass. A lonely, silent, peaceful place, where, albeit a habitation of man for untold centuries, it is wild Nature still. Here, with eyes and mind occupied with the bird, I did not at first pay much attention to the hedges : I simply got over them, or, in thorny and boggy places, walked on them, but eventually they began to exercise an attraction, and I began to recognise that these, too, like the planted hedges of other districts, were man's creation but in part, since Nature had added much to make them what they are. Human hands first raised them : the process is going on all the time ; the labourer, the cow-boy, the farmer himself, when there is nothing else to do, goes out and piles up stones to stop a gap the cattle have made, to add to the height or length of an old hedge, and so on, but the wall once made is taken over by Nature as in the OLD CORNISH HEDGES . 45 case of the planted hedge. She softens and darkens the crude harsh surface, clothes it in grey and yellow lichens and cushioned green moss, and decorates it with everything that will grow on it, before the time comes for her to ruin and finally to obliterate. But what time is needed here for demolition with such a material as granite to work on, where there are no trees to insinuate their roots into the crevices, slowly to expand the pliant fibres into huge woody wedges to thrust the loose stones apart and finally to pull them down ! We can imagine how slow the destructive processes are when we look at innumerable Cornish crosses scattered over the county, showing clearly the lines cut on them in the early days of Christianity in this district. Still more do we see it in the ancient sacred stones — the cromlechs, coits, hurlers and holed stones, moor-stones or " merry maidens," and many others — which have stood and resisted the disintegrat- ing effect of the weather since prehistoric times. The wall built is practically everlasting, but Nature works slowly on it, and the hedges I had about me differed greatly on this account, from the rude walls raised but yesterday or a dozen or twenty years ago to those which must have stood for centuries or for a thousand years or longer. Indeed, it was the appearance of extreme antiquity in one of these hedges, which I often crossed and sometimes walked on, which first excited my interest in the subject. It looked, and probably is, older than the walls of Silchester, which date back 1700 or 1800 years, and are now being gradually pulled down by the trees that have grown 46 THE LAND'S END upon them. It was the longest of the old hedges 1 found, beginning among the masses of granite on the edge of the cliff, and winding away inland to lose itself eventually among the rocks and gullies and furze-thickets at the foot of a great boulder-strewn hill. Its sinuosity struck me as a mark of extreme age, as in this it resembled the huge prehistoric walls or earthworks made of chalk on the downs in Southern England, which meander in an extraordinary way. It was also larger than the other hedges, which crossed its winding course at all angles, being in most parts six to seven feet high, and exceedingly broad ; moreover, where the stones could be seen they ap- peared to be more closely fitted together than in other hedges. Most of the stonework was, however, pretty well covered over, in some places with a very thick turf, in others by furze and bracken, rooted in the crevices and in places hiding the wall in a dense thicket. But of all the plants growing on it the ivy was most remarkable. It is not a plant that flourishes in this district, where it has as hard a struggle as any tree to maintain its existence. It is found only in sheltered situations on this coast, in the villages, and on the landward side of steep banks and large masses of rock. On this old wall there was really no shelter, since the furious blasts from the sea swept both sides of it with the same violence. Yet in places the ivy had got pos- session of it, but it was an ivy very much altered in character by the unfavourable conditions from that greenest luxuriant plant we know so well. In place of OLD CORNISH HEDGES 47 the dark mass of foliage, the leaves were few and small and far apart, so that viewing the wall from a little distance away you would not notice that it had any ivy growing on it, but would see that the more naked portions were covered with a growth of rope-like stems. The wonder is that with so few leaves it can grow so much wood ! The stems, which are HEDGE AT ST. IVES not thick, are smooth and of a pale grey colour and grow in and out of the crevices, and cross and re- cross one another, fitting into all the inequalities of the stony surface and in places where they cover the wall looking like a numerous brood or tangle of grey serpents. This snaky appearance of the almost leafless old wall-ivy fascinated me, and I went often to look at it on the same spot and was never tired of the sight. 48 THE LAND'S END It struck me as curious that the woody ivy should have this aspect, since the wall itself in some parts distinctly suggested the serpentine form and appear- ance. Here again I was reminded of some of the long earthworks or walls on the Wiltshire and Dorset- shire downs — the rounded, thickly turfed bank which winds serpent-like over the hills and across the valleys, and which often has a green colour differing slightly from that of the earth it lies across. The old Cornish hedge had this aspect in places where it was clothed with turf, and, viewed from a distance and seen winding about in great curves across the rough brown heath and furze-grown earth, the serpentine appearance was very marked. Whether or not the Cornish antiquaries have paid any attention to these ancient hedges I do not know. The only native I came across who had anything to say about them was a peasant farmer whose acquaintance 1 made at his cottage-like farm, a few miles from the hedge I have described. He was a man of seventy- nine but vigorous still and of a lively mind. When I spoke to him about the old hedge and its ancient appearance, he said he had known it all his life ; that he was a native of a small hamlet close to the hedge, and at the age of seven, when he first took to birds'- nesting, he used to hunt along it on every summer day and came to know it as well as he knew the fence round his garden and the walls of the cottage he lived in. It had not, he assured me, changed in the least during the last seventy or seventy-two years : it was to-day exactly what it was in his early boyhood, with OLD CORNISH HEDGES 49 thick turf and furze and bracken and woody ivy covering it in the same way in the same old places. This made him think it must be very, very old. It seemed to me that his life, although a long one, was but a short period to measure by in such a case, that if he could have consulted his father and grand- father and his remoter ancestors back to the time when the last Cornish king was cast out by William the Bastard, they would all have given the same testimony and said that the hedge was very old when they knew it. CHAPTER V BOLERIUM: THE END OF ALL THE LAND Cliff scenery and headlands — The Land's End sentiment — Pilgrims and how they are affected — Wilkie Collins — The child's vision — Books on Cornwall —