"But the post-office men were now so reduced in numbers that it was with the greatest difficulty that Captain Cock could continue to serve the guns and at the same time collect sufficient men to meet the constantly recurring boarding attacks. It was plain that this situation of affairs could not last: there was no sign of succour on the sea, and when Captain Cock looked aloft he could not but admit that in the crippled condition of his ship all chance of running her ashore was gone. The Townshend was in fact a mere wreck. Her bowsprit was shot in pieces. Both jib-booms and head were carried away, as well as the wheel and ropes. Scarcely one shroud was left standing. The packet lay like a log on the water, while the privateers sailed round her, choosing their positions as they pleased, and raking her again and again. Still Captain Cock held out. It was not until ten o'clock, when he had endured the attack of his two powerful enemies for nearly three hours, that he looked about him and realised that the end had come. There were four feet of water in the hold, and the carpenter reported that it was rising rapidly. The packet was, in fact, sinking. Nearly half the crew were in the hands of the surgeon. The rest, exhausted and hopeless of success, had already fought more nobly than even he could have foreseen, and were now being uselessly sacrificed. Still Captain Cock's pride rebelled against surrender; and as he saw the colours he had defended so well drop down upon the deck, it is recorded that he burst into tears. He had no cause for shame. Such a defeat is as glorious as any victory, and is fully worthy of the great traditions of valour on the sea which all Englishmen inherit."
It would be easy to quote many such stories, which, together with the siege of Pendennis, form the heroic memories of Falmouth. Otherwise, the town's associations are chiefly provincial, not to say parochial. The abiding glory of the place is its beauty of position, and the magnificent views that it commands. Something of an old-world atmosphere still lingers around the quays. One attraction is gone; John Burton is no longer at the old curiosity shop bearing his name. Memories of the Killigrews are preserved by the curious pyramidal monument, erected in the Grove by Martin Killigrew in 1737, and now standing at Arwenack Green. Perhaps there should be some memorial of the Rev. John Collins, who, during the Commonwealth days, practised here as a physician, having been ejected from his living at Illogan. His diary proves how well he deserved remembrance. One entry tells how he "did this day administer —— to old Mrs. Jones for her ague." Then, the following day: "Called on Mrs. Jones, and found she had died during the night in much agony. N.B.—Not use —— again." We may hope he is now forgiven for his experiments. Falmouth, however, can only claim him as a resident. There is little more to tell about Falmouth. Its present docks, covering an area of 120 acres, were built in 1860. There is some ship-building, some brewing, with oyster and trawl fishing; the fishery engages nearly seven hundred persons. Industrially, the town cannot hope for much, unless it should ever become a naval base; but as a residential district it is very delightful, combining the charms of sea and noble river. The Castle Drive can hardly be surpassed, of its kind; and if we proceed past the Gyllyngvase bathing-beach, there is a pleasant little lake known as the Swanpool, which was once a swannery of the Killigrews.
For antiquity as for present-day industry we must go to Penryn, which lies about two miles up the Penryn Creek and is devoted to the export of granite. The busy but not very lovely little town has very much of a granite tone about it, and can boast that it supplied the material for Waterloo Bridge; it can also boast that it was in existence before the Conquest—how much earlier is difficult to say. Its parish church was so largely restored in 1883 that it is practically new; it is dedicated to "Gluvias the Cornishman," who was a Welshman. Among the gardens at the back of Penryn's chief street are some remains of Glassiney College, founded in 1246 by Bishop Bronescombe of Exeter for secular canons and vicars. It became perhaps the most important centre of learning and literature in Cornwall, and was a nursery of the old miracle-plays or interludes—some of which still survive in the Cornish original and prove themselves to be no better, no worse, than the average of such performances throughout the kingdom. Old Cornwall, it must be confessed, did very little for literature; and if we regret the extinction of the vernacular, it is not for any literary treasures that remain embodied in it. But an event that took place at Penryn is the theme of something a little better than the Cornish interludes—namely, the "Penryn Tragedy," which inspired Lillo's play The Fatal Curiosity. It is said that a Penryn man who had left Cornwall in his early days and had become rich abroad, returned to his home just as a present-day miner might return from South Africa. He was recognised by his married sister, but, begging her keep the secret, he proceeded incognito to his parents' house and asked their hospitality for the night. Unhappily the old mother caught sight of the treasure that he had about his person, and she persuaded the father to kill the man in his sleep. Next morning the sister came to share in their joy at the wanderer's return, and asked for her brother. To their horror, the wicked old couple found that they had murdered their own son. They had grace enough to commit suicide after the discovery. The same tale seems to have been conveyed to Wales, where it is related of a parish in Montgomeryshire; but a Welsh poem that tells the story rightly attributes it to Cornwall. And yet it is possible that the same event happened in Wales also; a few years since the newspapers related an almost identical incident as having occurred in Russia. Perhaps the story really belongs to folk-lore, reappearing at times under a new guise and in a new locality.
In the possession of the Penryn Corporation is a silver chalice, given by Lady Jane Killigrew "to the towne of Penmarin when they received mee that was in great miserie." It seems that about this time (1633) the lady was divorced, and took refuge from her domestic troubles at Penryn, where the animosity of the townsfolk towards the Killigrews caused her to be received with great favour; she afterwards married Francis Bluett. A mistake has been made by many in attributing to her the piracy committed two generations earlier by Lady Mary Killigrew, who illegally boarded some foreign vessels lying at Falmouth Harbour and carried away treasure. There was some bloodshed over the matter, and a considerable scandal; so much, that it is said the lady was sentenced to death by the authorities, but escaped through influence. In any case, poor Lady Jane, who, whether she had been frail or not, had enough private sorrows of her own, must not be saddled with this additional load of blame for an act that she never committed.
Immediately opposite Falmouth, across the Penryn creek, the little port of Flushing, with a climate supposed to be the mildest in England, has survived to tell us of an extinguished glory. The passing of the packet service brought comparative stagnation to Falmouth; it actually crushed Flushing. It is a pleasant little place, and one cannot wonder at its popularity with the naval men who resided here. It is said to have been founded by Dutch settlers, who brought the name with them. Some few of its old houses remain, suggestive of its former life, and Flushing is left to luxuriate in the dreams of its past. The church here is modern. Flushing is in Mylor parish, and Mylor can claim a greater antiquity. There was once a royal dockyard here. The dedication is to Melor, son of St. Melyan; both father and son appear to have suffered martyrdom, or were victims of political intrigue. The church was restored in 1869, but retains much of its Norman character; and one of its best monuments perpetuates the memory of the Trefusis family, whose name also attaches to the headland eastward of Flushing. Lord Clinton is of this family. Mylor is most pleasantly situated at the mouth of its own little creek, and looks up the Carrick Roads towards Truro; but before taking the journey thither, delightful in itself and delightful in its objective, it may be worth while to cross the harbour for a peep at St. Mawes, which somehow seems like an off-lying shoot of Falmouth. It is named apparently from St. Maudez or Mauditus, of Ireland, though some have asserted that the real dedication is to St. Maclovius of the Breton St. Malo. The question is rather involved, and may not appeal to many. The castle was built in 1542, about the same time as Pendennis, and both forts were supposed to have been under the special fostering care of Henry VIII., who realised the strategic importance of Falmouth Harbour. Its first Governor was Michael Vyvyan, and its last Sir Alexander Cameron. At the time of the Civil War it could not boast the fine resistance that Pendennis offered, being easily commanded by ordnance from the heights above; but as a defence on the seaward side and a protection to the estuary its position is very powerful, and must prove so should Falmouth ever become a naval base. At present the castle has little but its size to recommend it; but the little town, with its small jutting pier, has some attractiveness. An interesting ingot of tin was discovered near here, many years since, showing how the old tin-workers shaped their metal for transport. Truro can hardly be said to be on the coast; but certainly no book on Cornwall can ignore this town, which is, in fact, the capital of the Duchy intellectually and ecclesiastically, however loudly Bodmin may claim to be the assize town. Partly by reason of its shape, partly perhaps from other causes, there has been little centralisation in Cornwall, and the very selection of Truro to be the cathedral city was in some sort an artificial and arbitrary arrangement. No doubt it was the best that could have been made; but old Cornwall had no such centre, and there were rival claims to be considered. It may not be incorrect to say that Cornwall of to-day has several capitals: Penzance is the commercial centre of the far west; Redruth and Camborne dominate the mining districts; St. Austell is the metropolis of china-clay; while Bodmin and Launceston perhaps more intimately represent agriculture. Truro stands apart from them all, and represents the Church. In one sense the real capital of Cornwall to-day is Plymouth, meaning by that the Three Towns, as in old days it was Exeter. But of all existing Cornish towns, none would be better qualified than Truro to play the dignified part of the cathedral city; and, with its population of about 13,000, Truro does this very well. Its honours sit well upon it, and have been accepted with becoming pride. Undoubtedly the pleasantest way of reaching the cleanly and agreeable little town is by the boat from Falmouth, and the trip is one of the recognised things that visitors to Cornwall are supposed to do. There can be no question of the journey's beauty, though when it is contended that this is the loveliest river in England, one remembers other beautiful streams whose claims are at least equal. In Cornwall itself there is the Fowey River, quite as rich in loveliness, if on a smaller scale; and there is the Tamar, whose charm is so great that both Devon and Cornwall are eager to claim it. Then there are the exquisite reaches of the Dart, from its mouth to Totnes, to say nothing of its wilder course beyond, among the fastnesses of the moors. In Monmouthshire there is the "sylvan Wye." All these, and many other claimants, spring to mind and enforce upon us the foolishness of any comparisons at all. Beauty must be always complete and satisfying in itself, unless we let our thoughts be disturbed by ideas of a possible better. It is certain that the passage up the Fal, especially in suitable weather, is of very real charm, with its numerous tempting creeks and pools, its ferries and riverside hamlets, its sloping meadows and spreading woodlands. But when we speak of going up the Fal to Truro, we are speaking incorrectly; the true Fal turns eastward after passing King Harry's Reach and runs to Ruan Lanihorne; the water on which we pass to the Truro quayside is the Truro River. It has been spoken of by our late Queen, among the many visitors who have admired it. She said, "We went up the Truro, which is beautiful, winding between banks entirely wooded with stunted oak and full of numberless creeks. The prettiest are King Harry's Ferry and a spot near Tregothnan, where there is a beautiful little boathouse." Tennyson was here a little later (in 1860) after a visit to the Scillies, and he made the river trip from Falmouth to Truro. On the boat the poet was recognised, his portraits, and perhaps some knowledge that he was in the neighbourhood, being responsible for the discovery. Palgrave, who was with him, writes: "Our captain presently came forward with a tray and squat bottle, and said, with unimpeachable good manners, that he was aware how distinguished a passenger, &c., and that some young men sitting opposite, and he, would be much honoured if Mr. Tennyson would take a tumbler of stout with them." The poet gave a gracious response, and willingly drank the health of his admirers. But "presently the captain reappeared, and this time it was the ladies in the cabin who begged that the Laureate would only step down among them. But the height of that small place of refuge, Tennyson declared, would render the proposed exhibition impossible. Might he not be kindly excused? The good women, however, were not to be balked; and one after another presented her half-length above the little hatchway before us, gazed, smiled, and retreated." It was well for Tennyson that he had overcome some of his early shyness, or the ordeal might have tried him considerably. There was no cathedral in those days, rising with somewhat foreign aspect from near the waterside; but its germ was there in the old parish church of St. Mary's, which now welds the ancient and the modern into one beautiful and fairly harmonious whole. It is difficult to over-estimate the value of this old church as a component part of the new cathedral; and the atmosphere that it sheds seems gently pervading the entire building, taking away the glare of its modernity, softening what might otherwise be crudity, and giving a vital sense of continuity to the worship of the bygone and the present. It may have been impossible to include more of the old church in the new edifice, but we are grateful that this south aisle remains. It is generally supposed that the Cornish are a Dissenting people, yet they all took kindly to the building of this minster, and they all feel a pride in it. Gifts poured in from all parts of the Duchy to assist in its erection, and, suitably enough, very little but Cornish material was used in its construction—Cornish granite, china-stone, polyphant, and serpentine, with Cornish copper in the clock-tower. It might, perhaps, have been better if Perpendicular, the prevalent church style in Cornwall, had been adhered to, instead of a rather French-looking Early English; but even on this point opinions may be divided.
The cathedral has made Truro a place of pilgrimage for all loyal Cornish folk, and they may feel proud that in a materialistic age such an emblem of faith has been fostered and reared. Local guide-books will sufficiently explain the details, but every visitor should notice the beautiful marble paving of the choir, and the fine baptistery in memory of the missionary, Henry Martyn, himself of Truro. This revival of the Cornish see, some thirty years since, formed a link between the present generation and the old days, nine hundred years earlier, when St. German's was episcopal; further still, it takes us back to the times of the old saints, fitly commemorated here, who came from Ireland and Wales and Brittany to bring the Cornish people a knowledge of that in which they believed. The Truro cathedral is a fact, and certainly a fact of considerable significance. Its first bishop was the beloved Dr. Benson, his memory perpetuated in the Benson Transept, with its graceful rose-window. One thing is impressed upon us by this new minster—that present-day architecture, when meritorious, is an imitation. The closer it keeps to old models, the better is the result. Did church-building really say its last word four centuries since?
For its greater antiquity we have to remember that Kenwyn, about a mile inland, is the mother of Truro, and this place has been claimed as a Roman station named Cenion. The Itineraries speak of the stations on the rivers Tamara, Voluba and Cenia. Tamara is the Tamar; Voluba probably the Fowey; Cenia the Truro or Kenwyn River. But it is exceedingly doubtful that Rome ever had definite stations in Cornwall at all. This does not affect the antiquity; Kenwyn was a British settlement, if never Romanised. Truro is supposed to signify the "town on the river"; its manor was held by Robert de Mortain after the Conquest, and the place seems to have had a charter as early as the days of Stephen. Its position, far retired up the river, is eloquent of times when men dreaded to settle close to the sea—the sea brought foes and deadly night attacks; it was when commerce became more important that Falmouth sprang into being. We have similar instances at Lostwithiel and Fowey, Totnes and Dartmouth, Exeter and Exmouth, as well as a striking modern instance in Bristol and Avonmouth. There was a castle at Truro, on the present site of the cattle market, but it was "clene down" in the time of Leland; there were also a Dominican friary and a house of Clare monks. As a port Truro did its best to oppose the building and growth of Falmouth, but the inevitable could only be delayed, not prevented. The town's recompense came late, but it has come. Though it welcomed the fugitive Charles II., the town itself does not appear to have seen any fighting during the Civil War—it is certainly quite indefensible; but at Tresillian Bridge, about three and a half miles east, at the head of the creek so named, the desperate struggle of Cornish Royalists was brought to a close by the surrender of Sir Ralph Hopton to Fairfax.
CHAPTER VI
FROM FALMOUTH TO THE LIZARD