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RAMBLES BEYOND RAILWAYS.

[Illustration: LAMORNA COVE.]




  RAMBLES BEYOND RAILWAYS;

  OR,

  Notes in Cornwall taken A-Foot.




  BY WILKIE COLLINS,

  AUTHOR OF
  "ANTONINA," "THE WOMAN IN WHITE," ETC.



  [Illustration: The Land's End, Cornwall.]



  _NEW EDITION._


  LONDON:
  RICHARD BENTLEY: NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
  Publisher in Ordinary to Her Majesty.
  1861.




  DEDICATED TO

  THE COMPANION OF MY WALK THROUGH CORNWALL,

  HENRY C. BRANDLING.




  PREFACE

  TO

  THE PRESENT EDITION.


I visited Cornwall, for the first time, in the summer and autumn of
1850; and in the winter of the same year, I wrote this book.

At that time, the title attached to these pages was strictly descriptive
of the state of the county, when my companion and I walked through it.
But when, little more than a year afterwards, a second edition of this
volume was called for, the all-conquering railway had invaded Cornwall
in the interval, and had practically contradicted me on my own
title-page.

To rechristen my work was out of the question--I should simply have
destroyed its individuality. Ladies may, and do, often change their
names for the better; but books enjoy no such privilege. In this
embarrassing position, I ended by treating the ill-timed intrusion of
the railway into my literary affairs, as a certain Abbe (who was also an
author,) once treated the overthrow of the Swedish Constitution, in the
reign of Gustavus the Third. Having written a profound work, to prove
that the Constitution, as at that time settled, was secure from all
political accidents, the Abbe was surprised in his study, one day, by
the appearance of a gentleman, who disturbed him over the correction of
his last proof-sheet. "Sir!" said the gentleman; "I have looked in to
inform you that the Constitution has just been overthrown." To which the
Abbe replied:--"Sir! they may overthrow the Constitution, but they can't
overthrow MY BOOK"--and he quietly went on with his work.

On precisely similar principles, I quietly went on with MY
TITLE-PAGE.

So much for the name of the book. For the book itself, as published in
its present form, I have a last word to say, before these prefatory
lines come to an end.

Cornwall no longer offers the same comparatively untrodden road to the
literary traveller which it presented when I went there. Many writers
have made the journey successfully, since my time. Mr. Walter White, in
his "Londoner's Walk to the Land's End," has followed me, and rivalled
me, on my own ground. Mr. Murray has published "The Handbook to Cornwall
and Devon"--and detached essays on Cornish subjects, too numerous to
reckon up, have appeared in various periodical forms. Under this change
of circumstances, it is not the least of the debts which I owe to the
encouraging kindness of my readers, that they have not forgotten
"Rambles Beyond Railways," and that the continued demand for the book is
such as to justify the appearance of the present edition. I have, as I
believe, to thank the unambitious purpose with which I originally
wrote, for thus keeping me in remembrance. All that my book attempts is
frankly to record a series of personal impressions; and, as a necessary
consequence--though my title is obsolete, and my pedestrian adventures
are old-fashioned--I have a character of my own still left, which
readers can recognise; and the homely travelling narrative which I
brought from Cornwall, eleven years since, is not laid on the shelf yet.

I have spared no pains to make these pages worthy of the approval of new
readers. The book has been carefully revised throughout; and certain
hastily-written passages, which my better experience condemns as
unsuited to the main design, have been removed altogether. Two of the
lithographic illustrations, (now no longer in existence) with which my
friend and fellow-traveller, Mr. Brandling, adorned the previous
editions, have been copied on wood, as accurately as circumstances would
permit; and a "Postscript" has been added, which now appears in
connexion with the original narrative, for the first time.

The little supplementary sketch thus presented, describes a cruise to
the Scilly Islands, (taken five years after the period of my visit to
Cornwall), and completes the round of my travelling experiences in the
far West of England. These newly-added pages are written, I am afraid,
in a tone of somewhat boisterous gaiety--which I have not, however, had
the heart to subdue, because it is after all the genuine offspring of
the "harum-scarum" high spirits of the time. The "Cruise of the Tomtit"
was, from first to last, a practical burlesque; and the good-natured
reader will, I hope, not think the worse of me, if I beg him to stand on
no ceremony and to laugh his way through it as heartily as he can.

 HARLEY STREET, LONDON,

 _March, 1861_.




CONTENTS.

                                                     PAGE

     I. A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION                        1

    II. A CORNISH FISHING TOWN                          5

   III. HOLY WELLS AND DRUID RELICS                    23

    IV. CORNISH PEOPLE                                 55

     V. LOO-POOL                                       86

    VI. THE LIZARD                                     97

   VII. THE PILCHARD FISHERY                          120

  VIII. THE LAND'S END                                139

    IX. BOTALLACK MINE                                155

     X. THE MODERN DRAMA IN CORNWALL                  180

    XI. THE ANCIENT DRAMA IN CORNWALL                 197

   XII. THE NUNS OF MAWGAN                            216

  XIII. LEGENDS OF THE NORTHERN COAST                 231


  POSTSCRIPT.

  THE CRUISE OF THE TOMTIT TO THE SCILLY ISLANDS      253




RAMBLES BEYOND RAILWAYS.




I.

A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.


  DEAR READER,

When any friend of yours or mine, in whose fortunes we take an interest,
is about to start on his travels, we smooth his way for him as well as
we can, by giving him a letter of introduction to such connexions of
ours as he may find on his line of route. We bespeak their favourable
consideration for him by setting forth his good qualities in the best
light possible; and then leave him to make his own way by his own
merit--satisfied that we have done enough in procuring him a welcome
under our friend's roof, and giving him at the outset a claim to our
friend's estimation.

Will you allow me, reader (if our previous acquaintance authorizes me
to take such a liberty), to follow the custom to which I have just
adverted; and to introduce to your notice this Book, as a friend of mine
setting forth on his travels, in whose well-being I feel a very lively
interest. He is neither so bulky nor so distinguished a person as some
of the predecessors of his race, who may have sought your attention in
years gone by, under the name of "Quarto," and in magnificent clothing
of Morocco and Gold. All that I can say for his outside is, that I have
made it as neat as I can--having had him properly thumped into wearing
his present coat of decent cloth, by the most competent book-tailor I
could find. As for his intrinsic claims to your kindness, he has only
two that I shall venture to advocate. In the first place he is able to
tell you something about a part of your own country which is still too
rarely visited and too little known. He will speak to you of one of the
remotest and most interesting corners of our old English soil. He will
tell you of the grand and varied scenery; the mighty Druid relics; the
quaint legends; the deep, dark mines; the venerable remains of early
Christianity; and the pleasant primitive population of the county of
CORNWALL. You will inquire, can we believe him in all that he
says? This brings me at once to his second qualification--he invariably
speaks the truth. If he describes scenery to you, it is scenery that he
saw and noted on the spot; and if he adds some little sketches of
character, I answer for him, on my own responsibility, that they are
sketches drawn from the life.

Have I said enough about my friend to interest you in his fortunes, when
you meet him wandering hither and thither over the great domain of the
Republic of Letters--or, must I plead more warmly in his behalf? I can
only urge on you that he does not present himself as fit for the top
seats at the library table,--as aspiring to the company of those above
him,--of classical, statistical, political, philosophical, historical,
or antiquarian high dignitaries of his class, of whom he is at best but
the poor relation. Treat him not, as you treat such illustrious guests
as these! Toss him about anywhere, from hand to hand, as good-naturedly
as you can; stuff him into your pocket when you get into the railway;
take him to bed with you, and poke him under the pillow; present him to
the rising generation, to try if he can amuse _them_; give him to the
young ladies, who are always predisposed to the kind side, and may make
something of him; introduce him to "my young masters" when they are
idling away a dull morning over their cigars. Nay, advance him if you
will, to the notice of the elders themselves; but take care to ascertain
first that they are people who only travel to gratify a hearty
admiration of the wonderful works of Nature, and to learn to love their
neighbour better by seeking him at his own home--regarding it, at the
same time, as a peculiar privilege, to derive their satisfaction and
gain their improvement from experiences on English ground. Take care of
this; and who knows into what high society you may not be able to
introduce the bearer of the present letter! In spite of his habit of
rambling from subject to subject in his talk, much as he rambled from
place to place in his travels, he may actually find himself, one day,
basking on Folio Classics beneath the genial approval of a Doctor of
Divinity, or trembling among Statutes and Reports under the learned
scrutiny of a Sergeant at Law!

  W. C.

  HARLEY STREET, LONDON,

  _March, 1861._




II.

A CORNISH FISHING TOWN.


The time is ten o'clock at night--the scene, a bank by the roadside,
crested with young fir-trees, and affording a temporary place of repose
to two travellers, who are enjoying the cool night air, picturesquely
extended flat on their backs--or rather, on their knapsacks, which now
form part and parcel of their backs. These two travellers are, the
writer of this book, and an artist friend who is the companion of his
rambles. They have long desired to explore Cornwall together, on foot;
and the object of their aspirations has been at last accomplished, in
the summer-time of the year eighteen hundred and fifty.

In their present position, the travellers are (to speak geographically)
bounded towards the east by a long road winding down the side of a rocky
hill; towards the west, by the broad half-dry channel of a tidal river;
towards the north, by trees, hills, and upland valleys; and towards the
south, by an old bridge and some houses near it, with lights in their
windows faintly reflected in shallow water. In plainer words, the
southern boundary of the prospect around them represents a place called
Looe--a fishing-town on the south coast of Cornwall, which is their
destination for the night.

They had, by this time, accomplished their initiation into the process
of walking under a knapsack, with the most complete and encouraging
success. You, who in these days of vehement bustle, business, and
competition, can still find time to travel for pleasure alone--you, who
have yet to become emancipated from the thraldom of railways, carriages,
and saddle-horses--patronize, I exhort you, that first and
oldest-established of all conveyances, your own legs! Think on your
tender partings nipped in the bud by the railway bell; think of crabbed
cross-roads, and broken carriage-springs; think of luggage confided to
extortionate porters, of horses casting shoes and catching colds, of
cramped legs and numbed feet, of vain longings to get down for a moment
here, and to delay for a pleasant half hour there--think of all these
manifold hardships of riding at your ease; and the next time you leave
home, strap your luggage on your shoulders, take your stick in your
hand, set forth delivered from a perfect paraphernalia of incumbrances,
to go where you will, how you will--the free citizen of the whole
travelling world! Thus independent, what may you not accomplish?--what
pleasure is there that you cannot enjoy? Are you an artist?--you can
stop to sketch every point of view that strikes your eye. Are you a
philanthropist?--you can go into every cottage and talk to every human
being you pass. Are you a botanist, or geologist?--you may pick up
leaves and chip rocks wherever you please, the live-long day. Are you a
valetudinarian?--you may physic yourself by Nature's own simple
prescription, walking in fresh air. Are you dilatory and
irresolute?--you may d