lying on the side of a hill. We passed through a village, then over a common, and we were there. All the world seemed to have come to the fair, and the stalls were being lighted up for the evening’s amusement. The Falcon Hotel, to which we went, is over the bridge, on the best side of Bude, and here we found all the comforts which one so thoroughly appreciates after a day’s hard walking.
Our stay at Bude was very short. After inquiring for letters the first thing in the morning, we were off early, our landlord driving us. We went first to see one of the inclines of the Bude Canal, at Masham Church, about three miles from Bude. It is a clever substitute for a succession of locks. There is a steep roadway, with two lines of rails coming down at each end into the canal, and traversed by an endless chain. The barges, which will carry about three or four tons, have small iron wheels, and are raised or lowered on this roadway by being attached to the chain, which is worked by an enormous water-mill. The longest incline is at Hobbacott Down, one and a half miles from Stratton, which is worked by a steam-engine. Our road from Masham Church, for a time, went inland, and we were much struck with the barrenness of the country. The labourers are very poor, and the cottages, many of them, are going to rack and ruin. In almost every village we noticed a little chapel, some sort of Methodist, we were generally told; for three-fourths of the people belong to this body of Christians, the fruit of the active and unceasing labours of those two great and earnest men, Wesley and Whitefield.
At St. Ginnis we turned short to the right, and soon came down to Crackington Cove, where we left our carriage, having planned to walk the remainder of the way to Boscastle. We shall not soon forget the beauty of this cove. The sea was coming in boldly and freshly, dashing round the rocks at the foot of Penkinna Head. We went as far as we could along the rocks, that we might sit quietly down to drink in the glory of the scene.
But we were not to remain long undisturbed. An old lady soon came to us to warn us of the coming-in tide. We had thought of this, and knew that we could easily climb the rocks behind; but her visit was not wholly disinterested,—she had some good cider to recommend, and she would fetch us water for our painting, if we pleased. To get rid of her, we ordered the cider; and away she went, and left us in peace. The children, when they found there were some visitors, came shouting on the cliffs above us; but they were too far away to be much annoyance, and we were soon cut off by the waves from any intruders by the way we came. The sea dashed up at our feet, as if to tell us we had no business there, and it would have its way. It was a glorious sight. In the far distance the clearest azure, nearer a deep purple, and at our feet it broke in waves of the freshest green one can imagine,
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave,
And sweet is the colour of cove and cave.
Those who have seen both North and South Cornwall say that in the south the colour is equally lovely; but only in the north are seen constantly the wild turbulent waves and the long swell of the Atlantic. Our good woman in due time brought us the cider, and we had our sandwiches; but the cider was a failure. We gave two glasses to the fishes when we found the old lady was out of sight, that her mind might not be hurt, and the rest we put again into her basket. We climbed the hill behind us, and said good-bye to our friend, who sadly wanted to be our guide; but we were independent, and would rather go alone. We, however, took her advice, and made direct to the end of Carnbeak. Here we had a magnificent view, and, with a telescope, could distinguish Lundy Isle, and the point of Hartland above a nearer projection. Bude is lost in the bend of the bay; but we saw the Dazard and Widemouth Bay, and to our left we could go as far and farther than Tintagel to Pentice Point. Boscastle is hidden between the hills.
Leaving Carnbeak, we ascended the cliffs immediately to the left. They are the highest on this coast—more than 800 feet. Not being such sheer precipices, we could hardly believe this, until we began to feel the long pull to the top from Carnbeak. We went through a quarry, and up the quarry road, and soon were on Respawell Down, the headland of which goes by the name of High Cliff. Here you see Minster, but not Boscastle yet, though the flagstaff soon comes in sight. Leaving Minster on the left, we went down into the valley between wooded hills, and suddenly came upon the Wellington Hotel, a quarter of a mile nearer to the harbour than the little village which lies on the side of the hill. The Wellington is a clean, comfortable house; the landlady a pleasant, good-tempered young woman, who sees to the visitors herself, and does it thoroughly. The inn was very full; but she gave up her own little sitting-room, and we found good beds in the village. As it was not late, we walked down to the harbour at once. It is a curious place,—a winding inlet cut out by the waves, with its high cliffs on both sides towering above, and the sharp points below, on which, unhappily, many a ship has been wrecked in trying to gain a place