Alacke, it was the more pittie.”
Percy Reliques.
Sheer over the bleak Cornish hills, fifteen miles from Launceston, lies a small white-looking town with a precipitous highway along which the principal houses and one or two poor-looking public buildings are ranged. It is a town without a church, and, except on market day, without the signs of stirring life and business; a remote and isolated little place which nevertheless once had its own Parliamentary representative and not unfittingly chose “Ossian” Macpherson as its member. This is Camelford, and the ride by coach from Launceston is not uninteresting or uninstructive. The desolate aspect of the land, the poverty-stricken appearance of the few tiny villages passed on the way, the barrenness of the hills, the scantness of the population, all serve to reveal the history, past and present, of this portion of England where only the hardiest of the race could live, and live somewhat precariously. The land itself yields little; there are no rivers upon which a boat could be used, and the line of rough hills which form the spine of the county pent the people as within a prison. Even now, Camelford and half a score of like places seem shut out of the world. The stream of life is sluggish, luxuries are scarcely known, the habits of the villagers are primitive, and yet the Cornishmen retain that rugged independence for which they have at all times been noted. In old times the county produced a race of heroes and giants who preserved their liberties and were among the last to be subdued by English rulers. Both modern and ancient history, legends and facts, bear testimony to the constant struggle which prevailed in this part, and had there been no “giants” in Cornwall, neither its traditions nor its history would be what they are. Queen Elizabeth said that the further she travelled west in her dominions the more convinced she was that the wise men came from the east. In a sense this was grossly unjust, for the Cornishmen, though they may have seemed a little uncouth, were by no means an uncultured race, and their literature proves how early they had their thinkers and their scholars, their bards and their chroniclers. Taciturnity on the part of this people need not be taken as a sign of unintelligence; rather is it proof to the contrary, for the Cornishman thinks for himself; he has his own opinions, and sturdily maintains them. A certain aloofness is discernible, and this is characteristic of a race which has so many claims to a distinct record of its own. In the character, bearing, and habits of the men of to-day may be found considerable corroboration of the truth which underlies the myths and legends of antiquity. If Camelford is now commonplace, with its market, its commercial inn, its linen-drapers’, ironmongers’, and greengrocers’ shops, there may yet be found within and around it much to charm and much to kindle the enthusiasm of the lover of romance. Here and there are the relics over which the antiquary gloats, and now and then a name is heard or seen which at once revives olden memories, or suggests with more or less distinctness a real connection with the last of the British race. It is not a little remarkable that while not a trace of the fourteenth century Charity Chapel remains, the sites of camps and the scenes of battles of much remoter date are still to be found. Signs of British occupation are not lacking, and one entrenchment known as Arthur’s Hill takes us right back to the time of the great king. Mere names may, however, in most cases count for nought, and the fact that hills, tarns, and fords bear the classic designation and are reputed to have had connection with Arthurian deeds is not equivalent to tangible proof of the truth of the stories. Camelford is chiefly noted to-day for being the principal town within access of the slate quarries, and of being within easy and convenient distance of some of the most imposing and enchanting scenery of the north Cornwall coast. From a few points of vantage a glimpse of the sea may be caught, and the lanes branch off to famed Pentargon Bay, Trebarwith Strand, Black Pit, St. Knighton’s Kieve, and Tintagel—all Arthurian haunts.
At the bottom of the hilly highway, beyond which stretch the meadows, one catches the first glimpse of the shallow little river, more properly called a brook, which, small and insignificant as it is, has become so prominently identified with the concluding scenes in King Arthur’s history. This is the river which gives its name to the town, the Alan Camel, or Camlan (from Crum hayle, meaning “crooked river”), by the side of which the last battle is said to have been fought. It is a shallow stream and it has to find its way to the sea by a tortuous course between the hills which extend to the coast, a fact which the poet has not failed to turn to account, for Drayton wrote—
“Let Camel of her course and curious windings boast,
.........
...Her proper course that loosely doth neglect,
As frantic, ever since her British Arthur’s blood,
By Mordred’s murtherous hand was mingled with her flood.”
No one can look upon the Camel, and trace its rippling course between low banks until it passes beneath the dark stone arch of Slaughter Bridge, a mile or so distant, and feel that it is quite worthy of its fame. It is scarcely picturesque, and it needed a very daring and imaginative poet to speak of it as “frantic” or to make reference to its “flood.” At its deepest one could wade across it and not be wet above the ankles, but in most places there is no need to get wet at all, for a single stride would suffice to carry one from bank to bank. Nor does the little stream in its course pass through that part of the land which appeals most strongly to the imagination of the pilgrim. It runs sluggishly and muddily beneath the heavy-looking bridge, much too large for it, bearing an almost grotesquely terrible name in commemoration of the fearful battle which took place thereabout between King Arthur and his rebellious nephew. Where Slaughter Bridge—not by any means an ancient structure, by the way—crosses the Camlan Arthur is said to have received his death-wound, and to have given a fatal blow to Mordred. If we could only believe one-half that is told of Slaughter Bridge it would be veritably one of the most fascinating spots in all England, a Mecca for pilgrims and students, poets and romancists. But alas! Slaughter Bridge, despite its awe-inspiring name, is the greatest of illusions, and the most striking of proofs that the real land of King Arthur is lost or changed beyond all recognition. Never can we believe that this most insipid scene in all north Cornwall was the portion of Lyonnesse where the last great battle in the west was fought, where Arthur met his doom, where the knights perished, and of all the great and noble company on either side only two knights survived to carry out their master’s last behests.