and a day absolutely divine! not a cloud upon the sky, not a ripple upon the water, or it appeared so in the distance. nearer, no doubt, there would have been that heavy ground-swell which is so long in subsiding, in fact is scarcely ever absent on this coast. the land, like the sea, was all one smile; the pasture fields shone in brilliant green, the cornfields gleaming yellow—at once a beauty and a thanksgiving.
it was the very perfection of an autumn morning. we would not lose an hour of it, but directly after breakfast started leisurely to find housel cove and try our first experiment of bathing in the wide atlantic.
the atlantic it certainly was. not a rood of land lay between us and america. yet the illimitable ocean "where the great ships go down," rolled in to our feet in baby ripples, disporting itself harmlessly, and tempting my two little mermaids to swim out to the utmost limit that prudence allowed. and how delightful it was to run back barefoot across the soft sand to the beautiful dressing-room of serpentine rock, where one could sit and watch the glittering sea, untroubled by any company save the gulls and cormorants. what a contrast to other bathing places—genteel eastbourne and brighton, or vulgar margate and ramsgate, where, nevertheless, the good folks look equally happy. but our happiness! no words could describe it. shall we stamp ourselves as persons of little mind, easily satisfied, if i confess that we spent the whole morning in housel cove without band or promenade, without even a christy minstrel or a punch and judy, our sole amusement being the vain attempt to catch a tiny fish, the robinson crusoe of a small pool in the rock above high-water mark, where by some ill chance he found himself. but he looked extremely contented with his sea hermitage, and evaded so cleverly all our efforts to get hold of him, that after a while we left him to his solitude—where possibly he resides still.
how delicious it is for hard-worked people to do nothing, absolutely nothing! of course only for a little while—a few days, a few hours. the love of work and the necessity for it soon revive. but just for those few harmless hours to let the world and its duties and cares alike slip by, to be absolutely idle, to fold one's hands and look at the sea and the sky, thinking of nothing at all, except perhaps to count and watch for every ninth wave—said to be the biggest always—and wonder how big it will be, and whether it will reach that stone with the little colony of limpets and two red anemones beside them, or stop short at the rock where we sit placidly dangling our feet, waiting, canute-like, for the supreme moment when the will of humanity sinks conquered by the immutable powers of nature. then, greatest crisis of all, the sea will attack that magnificent castle and moat, which we grown-up babies have constructed with such pride. well, have we not all built our sand-castles and seen them swept away? happy if by no unkinder force than the remorseless wave of time, which will soon flow over us all.
but how foolish is moralising—making my narrative halt like that horse whom we amused ourselves with half the afternoon. he was tied by the leg, poor beast, the fore leg fastened to the hind one, as seemed to be the ordinary cornish fashion with all animals—horses, cows, and sheep. it certainly saves a deal of trouble, preventing them from climbing the "hedges" which form the sole boundary of property, but it makes the creatures go limping about in rather a melancholy fashion. however, as it is their normal condition, probably they communicate it to one another, and each generation accepts its lot.
this horse did. he was a handsome animal, who came and peered at the sketch which one of us was doing, after the solemn fashion of quadrupedal connoisseurship, and kept us company all the afternoon. we sat in a row on the top of the "hedge," enjoying the golden afternoon, and scarcely believing it possible that yesterday had been yesterday. of the wild storm and deluge of rain there was not a single trace; everything looked as lovely as if it had been, and was going to be, summer all the year.
we were so contented, and were making such progress in our sketch and distant view of kynance over the now dry and smiling cornfield, that we had nigh forgotten the duties of civilisation, until some one brought the news that all the household was apparently dressing itself in its very best, to attend the rectory tea. we determined to do the same, though small were our possibilities of toilette.
"but what does it matter?" argued we. "nobody knows us, and we know nobody."
a position rather rare to those who "dwell among their own people," who take a kindly interest in everybody, and believe with a pardonable credulity that everybody takes a kindly interest in them.
but human nature is the same all the world over. and here we saw it in its pleasantest phase; rich and poor meeting together, not for charity, but courtesy—a courtesy that was given with a kindliness and accepted with a quiet independence which seemed characteristic of these cornish folk.
among the little crowd, gentle and simple, we, of course, did not know a single soul. nevertheless, delivering up our tickets to the gardener at the gate, we entered, and wandered at ease through the pretty garden, gorgeous with asters, marigolds, carnations, and all sorts of rich-coloured and rich-scented autumn flowers; where the hydrangeas grew in enormous bushes, and the fuchsias had stems as thick and solid as trees.
in front of the open hall door was a gravel sweep where were ranged two long tea-tables filled with the humbler but respectable class of parishioners, chiefly elderly people, and some very old. the lizard is a place noted for longevity, as is proved by the register books, where several deaths at over a hundred may be found recorded, and one—he was the rector of landewednack in 1683—is said to have died at the age of 120 years.
the present rector is no such methuselah. he moved actively to and fro among his people, and so did his wife, whom we should have recognised by her omnipresent kindliness, even if she had not come and welcomed us strangers—easily singled out as strangers, where all the rest were friends.
besides the poor and the aged, there was a goodly number of guests who were neither the one nor the other, playing energetically at lawn-tennis behind the house, on a "lawn" composed of sea-sand. all seemed determined to amuse themselves and everybody else, and all did their very best—including the band.
alas, that band! i would fain pass it over in silence (would it had returned the compliment!); but truth is truth, and may benefit rather than harm. the calm composure with which those half-dozen wind-instruments sat in a row, playing determinedly flat, bass coming in with a tremendous boom here and there, entirely at his own volition, without regard to time or tune, was the most awful thing i ever heard in music! agony, pure and simple, was the only sensation it produced. when they struck up, we just ran away till the tune was ended—what tune, familiar or unfamiliar, it was impossible to say. between us three, all blessed, or cursed, with musical ears, there existed such difference of opinion on this head, that decision became vain. and when at last, as the hour of service approached, little groups began strolling towards the church, the musicians began a final "god save the queen," barely recognisable, a feeling of thankfulness was the only sensation left.
now, let me not be hard upon these village orpheuses. they did their best, and for a working man to study music in any form is a good and desirable thing. but whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well. the great bane of provincial life is that people have so few opportunities of finding out when they do not do things well, and so little ambition to learn to do them better. if these few severe remarks should spur on that anonymous band to try and emulate the philharmonic or the crystal palace orchestra, it will be all the better for the little community at the lizard.
the music in the church was beautiful. a crowded congregation—not a seat vacant—listened to the excellent chanting, hymns, and a harvest anthem, most accurately and correctly sung. the organist too—it was a pleasure to watch that young man's face and see with what interest and enthusiasm he entered into it all. besides the rector, there were several other clergymen, one of whom, an old man, read the prayers with an intonation and expression which i have rarely heard equalled, and another preached what would have been called anywhere a thoroughly good sermon. all the statelier guests at the rectory tea—probably county families (one stout lady had the dignity of a duchess at least)—"assisted" at this evening service, and behind them was a throng of humbler folk, among whom we recognised our sole friend here, john curgenven. we had passed him at the church door, and he had lifted his hat with the air of a preux chevalier of the olden time; "more like king arthur than ever"—we observed to one another.
he, and we, and the aristocratic groups, with a few more of the congregation, lingered for several minutes after service was over, admiring the beautiful flowers and fruit. i think i never saw any decorations so rich or so tasteful. and then, as the organ played us out with an exceedingly brilliant voluntary, the vision of light and colour melted away, and we came out upon the quiet churchyard, lying in the cold, still moonlight.
but what a moonlight! clear as day, the round silver orb sailing through a cloudless sky of that deep dark which we know is blue, only moonlight shows no colours. oh, lady moon, lady moon, what a dangerous night for some of those groups to go walking home in! we saw them in twos and threes, various young people whom we had got to know by sight, and criticise, and take an interest in, wandering slowly on through lizard town, and then diverging into quieter paths.
as we gladly did too. for there, in an open space near the two hotels which co-exist close together—i hope amicably, and divide the tourist custom of the place—in front of a row of open windows which showed the remains of a table d'hôte, and playing lively tunes to a group of delighted listeners, including some children, who had struck up a merry dance—stood that terrible wind band!
it was too much! all our sympathy with our fellow-creatures, our pleasure in watching them enjoy themselves, our interest in studying human nature in the abstract, nay, even the picturesqueness of the charming moonlight scene, could not tempt us to stay. we paused a minute, then put our fingers in our ears and fled. gradually those fearful sounds melted away into distance, and left us to the silence of moonshine, and the sight, now grown familiar, but never less beautiful, of the far-gleaming lizard lights.
