as it looked, but tasted like “hare cut with a widgeony knife,” and was not very unlike a coarse widgeon. We tried lemon and cayenne, but I have no doubt the orthodox mode is “cormorant and clotted cream;” at any rate the natives take their cream with veal, mutton, conger, butter, and jam! However, there cannot be too much of such a good thing.
The natives are a delightful mixture of child-like good humour and deep plots to waylay tips from strangers. You can never take them unprepared for a “tip.” I heard of one the other day being asked if he wanted a common fern which he was switching about. Without a moment’s hesitation he ignored its companions all along the road, and demanded a shilling, on the plea of its being a very curious “artificial sort of one,” which he had just gone nine miles to fetch, and had bought for tenpence himself! But, on the other hand, when once you know them, you may often see what is so repugnant to any rustics, viz., a wish to return a “tip” if they think they have not fairly earned it, “fear you should think we’re imposing, sir.” Yet, to the evident stranger come to “do the Land’s End,” they show no mercy.
The genuine Cornisher’s manner of talking is in a languid drawl, very much prolonged on the last syllable, and resolving all diphthongs and long vowels, e.g., they talk of a bre-am, a bo-at, and a ro-ap (rope). Another peculiarity is that every village with a church is only known as Churchtown (or Ch’town), and not only this, but when you are in Ch’town itself, and ask for anyone who may be in a house a few yards nearer to the church than you are, the reply is “He be to Ch’town, I blaw” (I believe). Like the Scotch, they all use the word “brae” for “very”; it is always “a brae and fine day to fishey off t’rock;” or “t’ sea’s brae and coor (coarse), tu coor, sir!” (too coarse).
Of course their great time is when the pilchards come in; when the “huer” signals the fish, all the men, women, and children know that there is work cut out for them: at other times the only active part the women take in the fishing is to dig in the sand with iron hooks for “lances,” or sand-eels, which, when salted, are thought a great delicacy here.
I think the only animal that they do not eat is the cuttle-fish, which they object to as being “too naked.” However the “skids” make the best of baits about January, if the sea is calm, and the fishermen will often give as much as half-a-crown for a small one.
They have nothing to do with mining at the Land’s End, though the submarine mine at Botallack is within an hour’s walk: but they all seem to have a salutary dread of the men of St. Just, or “St. Joosters,” from the next mining parish. These miners are good hands at “wrastling,” and prepared on sight of a stranger, if they do not “’eave ’arf a brick at him,” to give him the falls known as “the Heap,” “the “In-turn,” and the “Flying-mare.” A little time ago, on some festive occasion, two champions fought, one being lame, with his crutches, the other with a carving-knife and fork, the latter of which he stuck into the other’s cheek, and carved it like a round of beef! A nose or ear was once considered there rather a proud trophy, although I believe now, between the police and the volunteers, their manners are softened, and not allowed to be ferocious. It is a fine sight to see some of the volunteer corps here, the stalwart farmers and head-miners recalling the days of Jack-the-giant-killer and Blunderbore, when there were giants in the land.
In conclusion, I will only repeat that anyone who comes here will find a village smacking of pure sea-salt, where every labourer is half a sailor. If he likes scenery he can climb about the granite, and on a rough day he may see real waves, one hundred and eighty feet high, come rolling against the cliffs. They sometimes wash clean over the lighthouse, the top of which is one hundred and twenty feet above the water. Add all this up—cliffs, waves, birds, and fishes, with perfect quiet and a railway within ten miles—and if you do not know where to spend a week or two, you will be tempted to come to the Land’s End.
NOT YET.
Not yet, not yet. Ah! let me gaze once more
Into those eyes, those earnest truthful eyes,
A little while, and then my dream is o’er;
And I, a wanderer under alien skies,
Shall see thy face no more, nor hear thy low replies.
See, in the west, the sun grows broad and red;
His golden glory rests upon thy brow,
And makes a halo round thy down-bent head,
And glimmers o’er thy soft dark locks that flow
In waves of light above, in waves of shade below.
That setting sun will rise again in might,
Will dry the tears the sorrowing night hath shed;
Will wake the world to gladness and to light.
What sun, the summer of the heart once fled,
Can brighten into spring its winter, cold and dead?
The red light fades: go forth upon thy way
Thro’ the dim eve, and leave me here alone;
A deeper night than follows after day
Will darken o’er my soul when thou art gone—
A night no wakening dawn will ever rise upon.
