Standing, then, in this quiet parlour in the cable-hut of Sennen Cove, with its dining-table and simple furniture, the perpetual sound of the sobbing sea the only audible sound except the occasional “gully,' ," "gully" of the gulls as they wheel about overhead, aloofness from the world and its business seems the predominant feature. But in thought one can imagine the never-ceasing flow of messages, by night as well as by day, constantly passing from this quiet, unassuming room to Lloyd's, the Stock Exchange, Lombard Street, and the City generally; the words of joy and sorrow, the quotations bearing fortunes or failures which, while one is looking at those harmless bits of wire, are coming in a stream from the United States of America, or going hence under the sea to that country. Messages of births, deaths, and marriages; records of news for publication in the Press; of weather warnings and the varying prices of corn, bacon, and other commodities--all pass through this little room and emerge to make up step by step the recorded history of two great peoples. The neverending rush, hurry, bustle, feverish work of our modern life, so apart from the quiet reposefulness of existence at Sennen Cove, are forcibly borne in upon us as the capable blue-eyed coxswain of the Sennen lifeboat, having charge of the hut in addition to his other duties, explains the meaning of the gutta-percha-covered wires.

As we go out and face once more the fresh breeze blowing in from the sea it makes the scene seem even more delightful than before. We like to think that for a time, at any rate, we are not within the roar and whirl of Fleet Street," Piccadilly, Strand, or Bank," the noise and grind of the motor-'buses or the crowded streets and bustling markets of the world which these wires and junctures have so forcibly recalled.

The bedroom, and other accommodation in the cable-hut, are provided to house the staff of the Cable Company in case a breakdown at any time necessitated a sojourn at Sennen Cove to do repairs.

Just below the cable-hut, across the sand-hills, the coastguards from time to time practise the rocket life-saving apparatus with the breeches buoy-a very interesting sight, proficiency in which is especially necessary on this rocky

coast.

SENNEN SHIPWRECKS

41

The women of Sennen Cove do a very fair share of the work. They carry creels of fish about, fetch the water from the stand-pipes in the road, and talk incessantly with their neighbours. The result is that you do not see middle-aged women. They are either young or old.

The men have one absorbing interest which keeps them fully occupied. The whole day long they are cleaning boats, patching boats, rowing boats, or lounging by the windlass at the top of the little Cove looking at boats, with their hands in their pockets, and pipe in mouth, thinking of boats. They are always ready to talk, and the slightest encouragement or advancement on your part may lead to refreshing discoveries as to the way of looking at things in general, sea matters in particular. Their national pride is in their pilchards. They will talk about them at any length to strangers, and even draw the long bow as to marvellous catches. They may well take a deep interest in the subject, for therein lies their main support of life.

Sennen has an advantage over many similar tiny fishing villages in that it possesses a water supply laid on to standards placed at convenient spots. The water does not continuously run from these, but a handle at each, when turned, allows the water to flow, and a shelf beneath is provided to place the can or vessel upon. By this contrivance the water is not wasted. The supply is from a small stream which is gathered into a head in the cistern constructed above the Cove from which the pipes are led.

An old resident of Sennen told me some of the actual stories of shipwrecks that had occurred there in his lifetime. A Mr. Martin who lived in the Midlands was an old college friend of the rector of the parish in which Cape Cornwall is. He had repeatedly promised to pay his old Cornish friend a visit, but had always been prevented. This at last became a joke between them in correspondence. On his way to India Mr. Martin and his sister were wrecked on Cape Cornwall, and on being landed safe and sound he asked in what parish he was, and on being told, simply walked into the Rectory and said, "Here I am at last to pay you my long-promised visit.”

Cape Cornwall, which is the northern boundary of Whitesand Bay, has a bad reputation for shipwrecks. A steamer

was in distress there once on the Friday, but would not avail herself of the proffered services of the lifeboat. On the next day, Saturday, a coasting steamer offered to tow her, but the captain refused, saying he had no tow-rope. On Sunday, in the evening, she signalled for the lifeboat at Sennen, which put out at once to her, and arrived just in time to see her mast-light disappear under the sea—all lives being lost. The first piece of wreckage which came ashore was a brand-new tow-rope: truly a Nemesis !

Here is another story: A collier was wrecked on the Cape and two men went below to get their watches and money. A sea came over whilst they were down below and jammed down the hatch on them. Those were the only two lives lost in that wreck.

On the deadly Brisons Rock two ladies in their nightdresses for two days and nights clung to the rocks in bitter cold weather before being taken off. One was dead, and is buried in Sennen churchyard, the other lived. I have condensed these narratives, but they are all literally true in every essential detail, and pathetically picture the dangers to shipping off this coast. The beauties of Nature are nearly always closely associated with her greatest perils. The most exquisitely beautiful parts of the world, such as Italy and Sicily, are the most liable to earthquakes of devastating magnitude.

Very few of the cottages at Sennen are now thatched, slate having taken the place of straw. Still, there is just one old thatcher left, and when he joins the majority the industry will, to all intents and purposes, cease to exist in this part of England. I happened to find the old man one day at work at the foot of the hill in Sennen Cove, and was fortunate enough to take a photograph of him at his occupation.

On the way from the cove, up the side of the hill towards Land's End, a remarkable stone, just verging on being a logan stone, attracts notice. So delicately poised does it seem that it looks as if the touch of the little finger would send it toppling down into the sea. I tried, however, to move it, but found it still prefers to remain on land.