ENGLAND'S RIVIERA CHAPTER I LAND'S END, CORNWALL, AND THE ADJACENT SPOTS OF BEAUTY AND INTEREST ALL whether in starting to write a book, or LL beginnings are tiresome. They are often decided in taking any other fresh step in life. There seems deeply planted in the nature of man a distinct disinclination to launch away, an inherent unwillingness to make a start. The intermediate stages are simply to be endured, because of the object in view. For it is the end, and means to that end, that causes the initiative; that smooths over the roughness of the beginning of every fresh undertaking; that is the spur to action; that is the source of inspiration, whether in Commerce, Art, or Science. "The Seven Springs" has the end in view, when the streamlet timidly starts on its journey to form the Thames. The interesting parts of that river are the course-Seven Springs, and London at the end. Who troubles about the middle, about the miles and miles of intermediate country? Journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man's son doth know. "The Seven Springs" starts away to the happy end in becoming acquainted with London, and in meeting the sea. Respice Finem: "Remember the end, and thou shalt never do amiss."1 So the orator is merely careful about his opening remarks-they are bothersome but necessary: he lets the middle part of his discourse take care of itself, leaving it a good deal to depend upon the feeling in the atmosphere momentarily surrounding his audience; but he looks well to his ending, and that he carefully prepares. It is by his ending that his speech will probably be re1 Ecclesiasticus VII. 36. B membered. It is the last tickle he administers to the mental palates of his audience which remains longest. The counsel begins by engaging the attention of the jury; he grows prosy and full of tiresome facts in the middle of his oration; but his ending is impassioned, persuasive, and deliberately calculated to make impression on their minds, just before they retire to consider their verdictthat is, of course, if the advocate knows his business and understands how best to play his cards. The beginning of the game may be noticeable; the play itself may be of interest, but it is the end of the game upon which the attention is concentrated. Placing a coin on the green cloth at Monte Carlo is exciting, but it is the end of the spinning of the roulette which is the thrilling, absorbing part of the business-or pleasure. Beginning to read a novel is a thing to put off. The middle pages are skimmed through rapidly, to see how all the mysteries, complications, and entanglements end. So people mostly read novels for their endings, and remember them, too, by their endings-not by their beginnings. The successful novels-commercially successful, I do not say artistically successful-have all pleasing endings by which they are remembered, and recommended to others. A novel with a sad ending is looked at askance by publishers. John o'Groats, the proverbial beginning of this country, may interest some-I know it not, so cannot say in what its interest consists-but Land's End interests all. The end of a country, I care not what, has always interest of some kind or other. That is why small islands always interest me more than continents. You can grasp an end, you cannot grasp a beginning you do not know whither it may lead you. Islands consist of nothing but ends. They are ends all round. Consequently an island is a comprehensible entity, a complete personality which can be grasped, understood, absorbed, digested-there is no end to a continent, you never get to the bottom of it. Cornwall is not an island, but it is next door to being an island-it is the most island-part of England, and it consequently presents many of the usual charming features and engrossing characteristics of seductive interest which pertain to islands proper. It follows, therefore, naturally LEG-LIKE CORNWALL 3 and logically that the most interesting part of Cornwall is its end-Land's End. The beginning of Cornwall is simply Devonish; the middle portions are, no doubt, worthy of attention, being so insular, with a sea on two sides they naturally would be, but the end-Land's Endis the part which is entrancing. When the proverbial expression, "From John o' Groats to Land's End," first arose I have failed to ascertain, but its meaning is obvious. It is used to express in forcible language the length and breadth of the land; to the uttermost parts of the earth. In this respect it is similar to Sterne's Dan to Beersheba -"I pity the man that can travel from Dan to Beersheba and cry, ''Tis all barren.'” "China to Peru" is another favourite phrase, expressive of the same meaning : 66 66 Burns used John o' Groats proverbially, but he ends his proverb at modest Maidenkirk : "Frae Maidenkirk to John o' Groats, Still the homely English expression, well understood of the masses, is always "From John o' Groats to Land's End." In shape Cornwall is very much like Italy, being remarkably leg-like in appearance. This southernmost and westernmost county of England has a long coast-line, and the land at the sea-coast is very jagged, and much broken up into bays and sharp headlands. Referring to the comparison to the human leg, one sees at a glance that the toe is Land's End, the heel is the mass of serpentine rocks known as the Lizard, the intervening district, or sole, Mount's Bay. The instep is St. Ives, and the body of the leg (if legs have bodies) is the main portion of the county. The calf has, like the padded calf of footmen in comic papers, got out of position, and has twisted round to the front of the leg, and 1 Johnson, "Vanity of Human Wishes." 2 Pope, Eloisa to Abelard." 3 Burns on 66 Captain Grose's Peregrinations through Scotland.” lies between Tintagel and Newquay, with Padstow in the middle of the hump. The proper place for this calf of the Cornish leg should, of course, have been at St. Austell. If the leg were booted, the spur would find its exact position at Falmouth Bay. But here let me at once say that the casual tourist to Land's End must not go away after his day's visit, or even his week's, with the idea that he has taken in all the beauties of this remarkable spot. The varied and ever-changing aspect which these bold and romantic cliffs assume have quietly to be assimilated to be properly appreciated and comprehended. In these days of quick transit and rapid change from place to place, we are too apt to draw conclusions from insufficient data. We live in a blotting-paper age. We do not allow even our ink to dry. To be appreciated and estimated at their proper value, the cliffs of this part of Cornwall must be seen in calm and in storm; in sunshine and in cloud; in bright gladness and in sombre despondency. We English love the sea and all belonging to it. We are in the first place a nation of sailors. No wonder the Cornish folk especially love their country, for it has sea nearly all round it. Those who have known the musical sound of the immeasurable waves from their childhood, like all the Cornish-born, can never be content to dwell amid what is to them the dreary quietude, the comparative platitude of inland scenery. A landscape without sea is to them like the face of a mute, devoid of movement and life. They pine for the ever-changeful sea, the insatiable ocean never the same two moments together, with moods as manifold and emotional as a woman's. For always the sea is living, always beautiful. A mountain scene is beautiful, but with a dumb, dull, inarticulate beauty. The sea speaks. Little wonder, then, the Cornish people are clannish, for they are bound together with the best of all ties, the interesting and deep-seated love of their country, and even to this day, when leaving it to journey north, they speak of going to England. How long that granite buttress of England, Land's End, has stood there bravely defying the wild fury of the Atlantic we know not. Geologists, dealing in awful ages, |