Of the two remaining streams that rise in the morasses around Cranmere Pool, the TAVY runs a course which, though not long, is remarkable for the grandeur and the richness of its scenery. Did space permit, one would be glad to follow it from its peaty spring under Great Kneeset Tor, through the grand defile known as Tavy Cleave, on between Peter Tavy and Mary Tavy to Tavistock, with its statue of Drake, who was born hard by, and its associations with the author of the “Pastorals”; thence past Buckland Abbey, rich in memories of Sir Francis and of the Cistercian monks from whom the neighbouring village of Buckland Monachorum gets its distinctive appellation, and so to Tavy’s confluence with the Tamar. Pleasant also would it be to trace its principal tributary, the Walkham, down its romantic valley, nor less so to track the Lid from its source, a few miles above Lidford, through its magnificent gorge, and onwards to its union with Tamar. But the sands are fast running out, and we must pass on to sketch very rapidly the career of the Taw as it flows first north-eastwards, then north-westwards, to meet the Torridge in Barnstaple Bay.

In the first part of its course the TAW, which the Exe exceeds in length by only five miles, is as frisky and headstrong as the rest of the moorland streams, but as soon as it has got well within the line of civilisation it sobers down, and thereafter demeans itself sedately enough. The first place of interest which it passes is South Tawton, where is Oxenham, now a farmhouse, but formerly the seat of a family of this name who lived here from the time of Henry III. until early in the present century. Of these Oxenhams it is an ancient tradition that a white-breasted bird is seen when the time has come for one of them to be gathered to his fathers. The last appearance of the portent was in 1873, when Mr. G. N. Oxenham, then the head of the house, lay dying at 17, Earl’s Terrace, Kensington. His daughter and a friend, the latter of whom knew nothing of the legend, were sitting in the room underneath the chamber of death when, to quote from Murray’s “Handbook,” their attention “was suddenly roused by a shouting outside the house, and on looking out they saw a large white bird perched on a thorn tree outside the window, where it remained for several minutes, although some workmen on the opposite side of the road were throwing their hats at it in the vain effort to drive it away.” An interesting occurrence, certainly; but if we are to see in it more than a coincidence, what is to be said of the puffin, the only one of its tribe ever recorded to have visited London, which, having found its way so far inland, flew into the rooms of the President of the British Ornithologists’ Union? Must we believe that the adventurous bird was moved to call there in order that its feat might be duly recorded in the Proceedings of the Institution?

It is below Nymet Rowland that Taw changes its course. Thenceforward it placidly flows amid rich meadows agreeably diversified with woodland. At Eggesford it is overlooked by the Earl of Portsmouth’s seat, peeping out from the trees which climb the left bank. At Chulmleigh it gathers up the Little Dart; and beyond South Molton Road Station the Mole, which gives name to North Molton and South Molton, brings in its tribute from the border of Exmoor. Having laved the foot of Coddon Hill, from whose rounded top one may have far views of the valley in both directions, the Taw flows by the cosy little village of Bishop’s Tawton on the right; along the other bank stretches Tawstock Park, the demesne of the Bourchier-Wreys, set about with fine old oaks. Then with a sudden bend it comes within sight of Barnstaple Bridge, and beyond the South Walk, on the right bank, bordering a pretty little park, appear the graceful tower of Holy Trinity Church—an unusually effective piece of modern Perpendicular work—and the ugly warped spire of the mother church.

The “metropolis of North Devon,” as this comely and lusty little town proudly styles itself, is a very ancient place, which had a castle and a priory at least as far back as the time of the Conqueror; but these have long since vanished, and save for a row of cloistered almshouses dating from 1627, and its bridge of sixteen arches, built in the thirteenth century, it is indebted for its savour of antiquity mainly to the venerable usages that have survived the changes and chances of the centuries. Like Bideford, long its rival among North Devon towns, it fitted out ships for the fleet which gave so good an account of the Spanish Armada. During the Civil War it declared for the popular cause, but was captured by the king’s forces in 1643; and although it soon succeeded in flinging off the royal yoke, it was re-captured, and remained in the king’s hands until nearly the close of the war.

Just below the hideous bridge which carries the South Western line across the Taw is the Quay, on the right bank, and beyond it, lined by an avenue of ancient elms, is the North Walk, now unhappily cut up for the purposes of the new railway from Lynton. The stream, by this time of considerable breadth, widens out yet more during the five or six remaining miles of its course; but its channel is tortuous and shifting, and only by small vessels is it navigable. A few more bends, and Instow and Appledore are reached, and Torridge is sighted as it comes up from the south to blend its waters with those of the sister stream. Then far away over the curling foam of Barnstaple Bar we get a full view of Lundy, its cliffs at this distance looking suave enough, though in truth they are not less jagged than when the Spanish galleon fleeing from Amyas Leigh’s Vengeance was impaled upon their granite spines; while on the left Hartland Point boldly plants its foot in the Atlantic, and on the right Baggy Point marks the northern limit of Barnstaple Bay.

It is at no great distance from Hartland Point that the TORRIDGE, most circuitous of Devonshire rivers, rises. First flowing in a south-easterly direction past Newton St. Petrock and Shebbear and Sheepwash, it presently makes a bend and follows an almost precisely opposite course north-westwards. In about the middle of the loop which it forms in preparing to stultify itself, it is augmented by the Okement, which has come almost due north from Cranmere Pool, brawling down a valley which, near Okehampton and elsewhere, is finely wooded. Past Yew Bridge and Dolton and Beaford, Torridge continues its sinuous course; and as it approaches Great Torrington, set on a hill some 300 feet above its right bank, its valley presents the combination of smooth haugh and precipitous rock shown in our view (page 49). Torrington has a history, and little besides. Even the church, enclosed in a notably pretty God’s acre, graced with avenues of beeches and chestnuts, has no special interest save that it contains the carved oak pulpit in which the great John Howe preached before his ejectment in 1662; for it had to be rebuilt after the Civil War, having been blown up by the accidental explosion of a large quantity of gunpowder while it was being used as a magazine and prison. Two hundred Royalists were confined in the building at the time, and these, with their guards, all perished. Winding round Torrington Common, gay in due season with gorse and bracken, our river glides on past Wear Gifford—an idyllically beautiful spot incongruously associated with a melancholy tragedy—to the “little white town” described by Charles Kingsley in the opening paragraph of his one great story. White it hardly is in these days, but this is the only qualification that strict accuracy requires. The famous bridge of four-and-twenty arches dates from about the same period as that at Barnstaple, which it considerably exceeds in length. The town itself lays claim to a much higher antiquity, for it traces its origin to a cousin of the Conqueror, founder of the illustrious line which came to full flower in the Richard Grenville who, as he lay a-dying, after having matched the Revenge against the whole Spanish fleet of three-and-fifty sail, was able proudly to say, in a spirit not unlike that of a later naval hero, that he was leaving behind him “an everlasting fame of a valiant and true soldier, that hath done his duty as he was bound to do.” He it was who revived the fortunes of Bideford after a period of decline, and so increased its prosperity by attracting to it trade from the settlements in the New World that it was able to send seven ships to join the fleet that gathered in Plymouth Harbour to fight the Spaniard. With memories such as these, the town may surely abate its eagerness to have accepted as Armada trophies the old guns which have been unearthed from its dustheap.

Pleasant the course of the stream continues to be, past “the charmed rock of Hubbastone,” where sleeps an old Norse pirate, with his crown of gold, till, with Instow on the right and Appledore on the left, Torridge meets her sister Taw, and the two with one accord turn westward and roll towards “the everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic swell.”

Of the streams that have their fountains on Dartmoor, the longer ones rise, as we have seen, in the northern division of the “forest”; the shorter ones, the Avon, the Erme, the Yealm, and the Plym, come to being in the southern division, at no great distance from each other, and amid surroundings not unlike those of Cranmere Pool; and all of them flow into the Channel on the western side of Bolt Head. Neither of them is without charms of its own; but the PLYM is easily chief among them, and with a rapid sketch of its course from Plym Head, some three miles south of Princetown, to the Sound, the present chapter must end. Flowing by rugged, flat-topped Sheepstor on the right, and Trowlesworthy Tor on the left, Plym presently reaches Cadaford Bridge, where it plunges into a rocky ravine, the precipitous hillside on the left crowned by the church of Shaugh Prior, while from the hill on the right, smothered with oak coppice, projects a huge crag of ivy-clad granite, the Dewerstone, celebrated for its views. At Shaugh Bridge the stream is swollen by the Meavy, which, not far from its source on the moorland, is tapped to supply Plymouth Leat—a work for which the Plymouth folk are indebted to Sir Francis Drake. Afterwards the Meavy runs by the grey granite church of Sheepstor, where, under the shadow of a noble beech, is the massive tomb of Sir James Brooke, of Sarawak fame. Richly-wooded Bickleigh Vale is one of the beauty spots of the Plym; another lovely scene is that at Plym Bridge, where, close to the mossy bridge, is the ruined arch of a tiny chantry, built by the monks of Plympton Priory that travellers might here pray to Heaven for protection before adventuring into the wilds beyond. Of the Priory, founded in the twelfth century to replace a Saxon college of secular canons, nothing remains but the refectory and a kitchen and a moss-grown orchard, which may be seen close to the lichened church of Plympton St. Mary, if we care to wander a little eastwards from the river. Not far off is the other Plympton, with its scanty fragments of a castle of the de Redvers, Earls of Devon. More memorable is Plympton Earl from its association with Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was born here, and sat at his father’s feet in the quaint cloistered Grammar School, where, too, three other painters of note were educated—Sir Joshua’s pupil and biographer, Northcote, the luckless Haydon, and the fortune-favoured Eastlake. Reynolds was not without honour in his own country, at any rate during his life. The Corporation of Plympton once chose him mayor, and he declared to George III. that the election was an honour which gave him more pleasure than any other which had ever come to him—“except,” he added as an afterthought, “that conferred on me by your Majesty.” A portrait of himself, which he painted for his native town, was long treasured in the ancient Guildhall, but the virtue of the Corporation was not permanently proof against temptation, and at last the picture was sold, for £150. This happened a good many years ago.

To get a coup d’œil of Plymouth and its surroundings, let us take our stand on the limestone headland known as The Hoe, where, according to the tradition which Kingsley has followed, Drake was playing bowls with his brother sea-dogs when the Armada was descried, and refused to stop until the game was ended. In these days it is surmounted by a statue of the hero, by the Armada Memorial, and by Smeaton’s lighthouse, removed from the Eddystone from no defect of its own, but because the rock on which it was based was becoming insecure. On the east The Hoe terminates in the Citadel, an ancient fortification which has been adapted to modern conditions; on the low ground behind crouches Plymouth, effectually screened from the sea-winds; on the west, beyond the Great Western Docks, lies Stonehouse, and west of this again is Devonport, its dockyards lining the Hamoaze, as the estuary of the Tamar is called. Seawards, restraining the rush of the broad waves of the Sound, is the Breakwater, a lighthouse at one end, a beacon of white granite at the other, and in the middle, as it seems at this distance, but really on an island just within it, a mighty oval fort of granite cased in iron. About half-way to the Breakwater is Drake’s Island, another link in a chain of defences which has, one may hope, rendered the Three Towns invulnerable to assault either from sea or from land; and over against this, bordering the Sound on the west, are the woods and grassy slopes of Mount Edgcumbe, the noble domain which the Spanish Admiral, Medina Sidonia, is said to have designed for himself. Away in the dim distance the new Eddystone rears its lofty head. How the first of the four lighthouses which have warned mariners of this dangerous reef was washed away, and the second fell a prey to the flames, every schoolboy knows. Familiar, too, is the story of the third; yet as we turn to look at it, now that it is retired from active service, we may be pardoned for recalling how, from this very spot, Smeaton was wont to watch the progress of the work which was to be his title to enduring fame. “Again and again,” says Dr. Smiles, “the engineer, in the dim grey of the morning, would come out and peer through his telescope at his deep-sea lamp-post. Sometimes he had to wait long until he could see a tall white pillar of spray shoot up into the air. Then, as the light grew, he could discern his building, temporary house and all, standing firm amidst the waters; and thus far satisfied, he could proceed to his workshops, his mind relieved for the day.”

RIVERS OF CORNWALL.

Of the streams possessing something of historic interest and scenic charm, the Looe must be mentioned because of the lovely vale through which it flows between Duloe and Morval and the association of the river with the ancient Parliamentary boroughs of East and West Looe at its mouth. The Seaton, the St. Austell river, the Hayle, the Gannel, and the Hel, each and all have their individuality, owing allegiance to no other river tyrannous of its tributaries; but the three principal streams of the county, the Tamar, the Fowey, and the Fal, which have been selected for special notice here, have a virtual monopoly of interest and attention. The TAMAR possesses, in a singular degree, the more striking characteristics of the Cornish rivers, and is fairly entitled to the distinction of first consideration at our hands. Having its rise at Woolley Barrows, in the extreme east of the westernmost county, a short distance from its source Tamar becomes the boundary between the counties of Devon and Cornwall, and so continues during nearly the whole of its course, some forty miles. Flowing distinctly southward, the river leads a quiet life for at least a league, till, gaining in size and importance, it gives its name to the pretty village and parish of North Tamerton. Thenceforth

At St. Stephen’s-by-Launceston it receives the Werrington stream, and expands into a beautiful lake in Werrington Park. Below the lake the impetuous Attery stream joins the now brimming river, which, passing under Poulston and Greston, reaches Tavistock New Bridge, where we are on the “scientific frontier” of Devon and Cornwall. At this point, too, the Tamar enters upon a new stage of its existence, leaving its lowly moorland birth and quiet ordinary youth behind it, and beginning a career which is henceforth the cynosure of all eyes. Hurrying by Gunnislake, the busy little hamlet of workers in clay and stone, at Weir Head the river literally leaps into fame.

The winding river gains a new glory from its beautiful and impressive surroundings as it flows at the base of Morwell Rocks, those wonderful examples of Nature’s carvings, set in the midst of luxuriant foliage that here hides their shaggy sides and there throws into bold relief an awe-inspiring pile. The Rocks are unique in their romantic beauty, even though they figure among the many objects of interest in a highly picturesque neighbourhood. The Chimney Rock and the Turret Rock are happier instances of descriptive nomenclature than usual. Bolder still is that most striking specimen of natural architecture, Morwell Rock, the massiveness of which doubtless gained for it the capital distinction. To the giddy height of the topmost rock, above the far-stretching woodland of Morwellham, scarce a sound of the rippling river comes; but the silver thread of its serpentine course may be traced afar through the romantic valley, winding about Okel Tor and the great bend that forms the peninsula between Morwellham and Calstock, and then taking its favoured way through cherry orchard-groves on to the haven under the hill.

The river is navigable to Weir Head, but Morwellham is the highest point reached by the steamers. Pursuing the line of least resistance, the Tamar now makes a tremendous sweep about the hill on which Calstock Church stands. But ere the first view of the “two-faced church” is caught, an interesting riparian residence is skirted—Harewood, the scene of Mason’s play of Elfrida, now the office of the Duchy of Cornwall, but formerly one of the Trelawny properties. Calstock, if it please you, is the centre of the old “cherry picking” district, though to-day its strawberry gardens must rival the orchards in their remunerative return to the industrious population of the quaint little town that seems to have grown away from the water’s edge to the pleasant Cornish country beyond Tamar bank. Still, if you would see Calstock in its daintiest garb and most delightful beauty, come you when the pretty cherry blossom decks the groves by the river, and the tender pink and white clothes the orchard lawns to the uplands.

From Calstock on to Cotehele, and thence almost to the junction of the Tamar and the Tavy, the same delightful eccentricity of the river-scenery presents itself—every prominent feature re-appearing in an entirely different aspect, scarce five minutes of the river-trip passing without a variation of the point of view. A last glimpse of Calstock Church, and we are encompassed by woodland. Everywhere a luxuriant living green meets the eye. Apparently, the swelling woods and orchard lawns approach ahead and form a cul-de-sac; but the Tamar makes a sharp detour to the right or to the left, and another glory of the leafy way bursts upon the sight. Again and again the pleasing experience is repeated ere a human habitation relieves a monotony that for once is wholly charming.

Beyond the limekilns of Cotehele appears the lodge gate of Cotehele House, one of the residences of the Edgcumbe family, and a place of some historic interest. By far the most prominent feature in the fine landscape which may be viewed from a tower at the highest point of the grounds is Kit Hill, the loftiest eminence on Hingston Down, which was the scene of a last desperate battle between the Britons of Cornwall and the invading Saxons in the year 835. A beautiful valley near Cotehele, known as Danescombe to this day, is said to have taken its name from the allies whom the Cornish called to their aid in this sanguinary struggle.

Immediately below Cotehele the zig-zag course of the Tamar is most strongly marked, and nowhere are its revelations of new views and fresh charms more entrancing than where it winds about the extensive grounds of Pentillie. Shortly after we have doffed our caps in deference to the pious Sir Richard Edgcumbe, devout worshipper of the Holy Mother, who erected a church by the river-bank to commemorate his miraculous escape from the soldiers of the royal Richard, we catch a fleeting but impressive glimpse of another stately residence of a county family, on a hilly eminence clothed to its crown with thickly grown woods, the castellated mansion emerging from dense leafy environs well towards the crest. All suddenly the coquetting stream swerves to the Devonshire side, as speedily returns to caress the fair meads of Cornwall, and another glorious prospect is disclosed. A nearer view is now to be had of Pentillie Castle, lying embowered in the far-stretching woodland, the Gothic features of the lordly pleasure-house which the late owner, Mr. John Tillie Coryton, built for himself admirably harmonising with its beautiful surroundings.

Below Pentillie, the Tamar, in its ampler waters and wider course, has to be satisfied with less interesting associations. A last big bend in the river, and, past the pretty hamlet of Cargreen, we shortly find ourselves abreast of the church of St. Dilpe, at Landulph, erected very near the river-bank, on the Cornish side. The tower of St. Budeaux Church, whose melodious bells chime cheerily across the water, rises high above the Devon bank. Here the Tavy makes common cause with the Tamar, and the twin rivers flow on by Saltash into the Hamoaze. Nearly opposite the mouth of the Tavy, on the Cornish side, is the ecclesiastical parish of St. Stephen-by-Saltash, with the ruins of Trematon Castle at the summit of a well-wooded hill. The castle is believed to have been built at the period of the Conquest, and was subsequently held by the Earls of Cornwall.

At Saltash—as the Western men will not forget to remind the boasting Cockney—the Tamar is wider than the Thames at Westminster. Saltash itself, by the way, was originally (according to Carew) Villa de Esse, after a family of that name, and to this was added “Salt,” on account of its “marine situation.” The busy little waterside town has this great dignity—that its Mayor and Corporation take precedence of those of Plymouth and Devonport. Saltash has gradually, through many generations, built itself up a steep, rocky acclivity until the habitations extend to the summit of the hill at Longstone, from which favoured eminence the prospect is very fine. Here may we see the broadened river where the ebbing tide swirls by the Mount Edgcumbe training-ship, that is swinging round on its tidal pivot just above Brunel’s great bridge; thence, flowing beneath the wondrous iron link of the two westernmost counties with which the engineer spanned the river, here half a mile across, the Tamar, now joined by the Lynher from the West, loses its identity in the all-embracing Hamoaze, with its wood-fringed shores; the river passing unremarked into Plymouth Harbour, from the Harbour to the Sound, and from the Sound to the Channel—forgotten now in the great affairs of navies, and the thrilling stories of the seas on which Drake and Hawkins, Raleigh and Grenville, sailed to fight the Spaniard. From haunts of peace, the Tamar, itself a pleasant stream, has flowed through scenes of rare beauty to these so warlike surroundings, where its current eddies about the decaying hulks on whose decks the old sea-dogs died, where its waters wash arsenal, dock, and victualling yard, and where it oft bears on its broad bosom a mighty fleet of men-of-war.

At the foot of Brown Willy, Cornwall’s highest hill, in the parish of St. Breward, there is an aqueous locality in which the water-finder might exercise his art of divination with the utmost confidence, if, indeed, he did not find his occupation gone by reason of the abundance of the surface water. This is Foy-Fenton, and here the FOWEY rises. As, to this day, Fowey becomes “Foy” in the naming of the boats that boast the prettiest harbour in the county for their port, one may easily discover a close association in the nomenclature of the sites and scenes at the beginning and the end of this very charming stream. In its course, curiously enough, the river changes its name. Where it flows southward through the moorlands between St. Neot and St. Cleer, it is called the Dranes (or Dreynes) river; and fishermen from the “model borough” of Liskeard, who love to flog its pleasant waters for the toothsome trout that they harbour, would be prepared to contend, in the face of the maps and in the presence of geographers, that it is the Dranes river, and no other. In flood-time a strong stream that gives the road-surveyor endless trouble, the Fowey, leaping along its bouldered way, here and there lightening its journey by falling in picturesque cascades, scattering its showers of iridescent spray over the thick foliage that everywhere clothes its banks, runs almost level with the main road to St. Neot—a village noted for its window-pictured legend of St. Neot and the miraculous supply of fish, in the parish church—where it receives a goodly stream of that name. Increasing the beauty and interest of its course with every mile it travels, the river by-and-by glides into the far-stretching woodland of Glynn, the seat of Lord Vivian, and then becomes one of the principal contributors to the scenic charms of the railway-side from Devonport to Par, which Miss Braddon describes as the most delightful of all journeys by rail.

After leaving its moorland haunts, and in order to reach Glynn, the Fowey took a westerly turn, but, Bodmin once skirted, the river runs directly southward again, under Resprin bridge and past Lanhydrock House, the Cornish home of that Lord Robartes who was the leader of the Parliamentarian forces in these parts. The ancient mansion, of the Tudor period, passed through many crises, and, together with modern additions, was practically destroyed by fire in 1881, and rebuilt in 1883–4. The next object of interest seen from the river is the ruin of Restormel Castle, on the summit of a bold headland a mile from Lostwithiel. The building of the castle is ascribed to the Cardenhams, who flourished hereabouts in the reign of the first Edward; and it was once the residence of the Earls of Cornwall.

At Lostwithiel—the Uzella of Ptolemy—the Fowey is crossed by an ancient and narrow bridge of eight pointed arches, erected in the fourteenth century. The bridge is very strongly buttressed, and over each buttress is an angular niche. A silver oar, which is among the insignia of the Corporation, bears the inscription: “Custodia aquæ de Fowey.” The celebrated Colonel Silas Titus, author of “Killing noe Murder,” Member of Parliament for the borough 1663–79, was the donor of the oar. Lostwithiel, where the river meets the tide, at once becoming navigable for small vessels, boasts great antiquity, and in 1664 was the headquarters of the Parliamentarian forces in Cornwall.

Here, below Lostwithiel’s ancient bridge, let us take boat and taste of the ineffable enjoyment which laureates of the Fowey have attributed to a sail or a row down the romantic stream to the mouth of the harbour, where the sailors sing their chanties as they work the merchantmen out between the old towers whence chains were stretched across the harbour in the stirring days when the Spaniard sailed the main. Sing hey, sing ho, for indeed life is worth living when the soft zephyrs blow, and we glide by the prettily placed church of St. Winnow, and catch the musical chiming of its melodious peal of bells. “Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm,” our delight knows no surcease, but rather grows as, something less than three miles below the old Parliamentary borough, the banks open out, and we behold that daydream of scenic beauty, the sunlit reaches of the river winding away toward the sea. One branch of this estuary, by-the-by, flows to St. Veep, which has an interesting church. The Lerrin and St. Cadoc creeks yet further enrich a river which Nature has endowed with charms so abundant. Bodinnoc Ferry is a name to conjure with in yachting circles, since there is not one log among the many of the pleasure-boats that make for the “little Dartmouth” of the Far West in the height of summer but contains some fine compliment to the rare beauty of the view, landward and seaward, from this familiar tacking point. No wonder that Fowey Harbour shares with its Devonshire rival the generous tribute of sportsmen, who have lavished upon each of these picturesque ports effusive praise that has its point in the proud title of the “Yachtsman’s Paradise.” Long ere these pleasure-seeking days was the discovery of Fowey’s possession of a safe and commodious harbour made: “The shippes of Fowey sayling by Rhie and Winchelsey, about Edward the III^rd tyme, would vayle no bonnet beying required, whereupon Rhie and Winchelsey men and they fought, when Fowie men had victorie, and thereupon bare their arms mixt with the arms of Rhie and Winchelsey, and then rose the name of the Gallants of Fowey.” But Leland knew that they deserved the title long years before, as “the glorie of Fowey rose by the warres in King Edward I. and III. and Henry V.’s day, partly by feats of warre, partly by piracie, and so waxing rich fell all to merchandize.”

Fowey took so naturally and keenly to the practice of piracy that the “gallants” had a little affair at sea with the French on their own account and against the King’s treaty and commandment, in the reign of the fourth Edward, who appears not to have been well pleased, since he took the head of one of their number, imprisoned the captains, and sent men of Dartmouth down to seize their ships and remove the chain then drawn across the mouth of the haven. But the “gallants” were nothing daunted, and in the time of Charles II. their successors beat off eighty Dutch ships of war that, greatly daring, had chased a fleet of merchantmen into Fowey Harbour. St. Finbarrus, first Bishop of Cork, is said to have been buried in the church, which is dedicated to him, and is a handsome structure. Place House, the seat of the Treffry family, besides being a noble mansion, gloriously dight with very fine specimens of Cornish granite and porphyry, is of great historic interest. It was Elizabeth, wife of Thomas Treffry—an ancient statue of whom stands in the grounds—who, in the absence of her husband, headed his men and beat off the French in an assault on Place House in July, 1457.

Along its course of but twenty miles, four of which are tidal, the FAL divides the county into two nearly equal parts. Fenton Fal, in Tregoss Moor, is the birthplace of the stream; and from the moorland it receives the tributary waters of many peaty rivulets before gaining entrance to the romantic vale of Treviscoe, which gives us a foretaste of that feast of the beautiful which the Fal affords in its lower reaches. Compared with what goes before and follows after, the course of the stream by Grampound (the Voluba of Ptolemy), through Creed valley, where it leaves Tregony on its left bank, and on to Ruan, is somewhat lacking in interest, and the river itself is of no great strength. Ere tin-streaming and the sandbanks had done their mischief, you might have reached Tregony on the top of the tide; nowadays the ebb and flow affect the river no farther than Ruan. Yet this has sufficed to gain for the Fal a glorious name. Perhaps the finest compliment ever paid to the river fell from royal lips. When the Queen, accompanied by the Prince Consort, made the trip down the Fal from Truro in 1864, she was visibly impressed with the beauty and splendour of the scenery, and particularly charmed with the view about Tregothnan. Her Majesty was reminded by it of the Rhine, but thought it almost finer where winding between woods of stunted oaks, and full of numberless creeks.

At Truro, the two little rivers, Kenwyn and Allen, flow through the city into a creek of the Fal, known as Truro river; the first-named separates St. Mary’s from St. Paul’s, while the second divides the parish of St. Mary from that of St. John. The little Kenwyn is “personally conducted” through the streets of the cathedral town by the Corporation, in open conduits, and forms a not unpleasant feature of the tiny city in Western Barbary whose inhabitants were once said to have a good conceit of themselves: “The people of this town dress and live so elegantly that the pride of Truro is become a by-word in the county.” The most modern of our English cathedrals is a monument to the pious zeal, marvellous industry, and unquenchable enthusiasm of Dr. Benson, the first Bishop of Truro, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury. The Prince of Wales laid the foundation stone in 1880, and its consecration took place seven years later. The style is Early English of the thirteenth century, and at present the cathedral but partially realises the ambitious design of the architect, who planned a very imposing edifice, which, in the event of its ultimate completion, must inevitably challenge comparison with the most notable of modern achievements in the Gothic. Already it possesses several splendid windows and many beautiful specimens of modern sculpture.

The prettiest parts of our river lie between King Harry’s Passage and Roseland. Below Tregothnan, where the Fal unites with the Truro river and St. Clement’s creek, both shores are beautifully clothed with wood, and the fine expanse of water at high tide lends a nobility and magnificence to the scene which affords ample occasion for the high-flown descriptions and lavish praise bestowed upon the Fal. On the right are the grounds of Trelissick; and a picturesque glimpse of the stream may be caught near the estuary called Malpas Road, by the ferry at Tolverne. After dividing Mylor from St. Just, the river loses its identity in forming Carrick Road, and shortly expands into the splendid haven of Falmouth Harbour. The inner part, between Trefusis Point, Pendennis, and the town, is called King’s Road. Carrick Road, where the river enters, forms the middle of the harbour, and midway between the entrance—which is from Pendennis Point to St. Anthony’s Head—there lies the ominously-named Black Rock, around which the Mayor of Truro sailed in June, 1709, when he sought to exercise jurisdiction over the port and harbour of Falmouth. But the citizens of the port themselves had had a powerful friend at Court, in the person of King Charles II., who had given Falmouth a charter overriding the ancient claims of Truro, by which the Mayor of the latter town had levied dues on all goods laden or unladen in any part of the Fal, from Truro to the Black Rock; and a trial at law in the same year finally established home rule in Falmouth Harbour.

Though to-day its prosperity is scarcely commensurate with its natural advantages, the harbour still remains almost unrivalled. First port of call for homeward-bound vessels, with a depth of water and safe anchorage that many another harbour might envy, and sheltered from all the winds that blow save those from the south-south-east, it is so capacious that the whole British fleet could ride at anchor in its waters. Falmouth as a town owes its existence to these striking features of its harbour. Beholding them, it struck the shrewd sons of the House of Killigrew, Lords of Arwenack (there is an Arwenack Street to this day), who flourished in the time of James I., that there was no earthly reason why vessels should go seven miles to Truro, or two miles to Penryn, for a port when an infinitely better one might be created at the very mouth of the harbour. Vested interests, as represented by the communities of Truro, Penryn, and Helston, offered stout opposition. But the silver-tongued Lords of Arwenack prevailed in the argument before King James, and it was not long ere Falmouth was the first port in Cornwall. Its great era of prosperity exemplifies the adage that it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, for, during our wars with the French, Falmouth became a mail packet station, and flourished exceedingly on “Government service.”

It was the boast of proud Falmouthians that a hundred vessels could ride in the creeks of Falmouth Harbour and yet that no two should be in sight of each other. How this might be may be understood in part when it is explained that, besides many smaller arms, there are five principal creeks. Of these branches not the least is that which was probably the earliest used, to Penryn; there is a second to Restronguet and Perranarworthal; a third, also of ancient use, to Truro and Tresillian Bridge; a fourth running up to St. Mawes and Gerrans; and the fifth and greatest, to King Harry’s Reach, toward Tregony, which is the main stream of our Fal.

HUGH W. STRONG.