Was wild and solitary, and the surge
Dashed on the groaning cliff, and foaming rose
And roared, as 'twere triumphing.
N.T. CARRINGTON.
The coast scene near Landwithiel[3] was of so varied and interesting a character that I was irresistibly led on to examine it very fully in detail. My sojourn therefore at Mr. Habbakuk Sheepshanks', of the "Ship-Aground'; (whom I have formerly introduced to the reader) was prolonged to an extent which sometimes surprised myself, and the various local stories and traditions of times past, with which mine host, especially when under the exciting influence of an extra glass of grog, almost nightly entertained me, essentially contributed to while away the time. The spot too was so secluded—comparatively unknown: there is something inseparable from a temperament like mine in so deep a retirement. To its inhabitants the world and its busy haunts are but as a tale; yet man in all his varieties is essentially the same. Many a day have I wandered along the sea-beaten coast—dining perhaps on a headland stretching far into the sea—or in some secluded little bay, by the side of a gushing spring; the ocean spread out before me—what object is so boundlessly or beautifully inspiring? It may be mighty fine philosophy for those who have passed through the current of life in one untroubled and unvaried stream, and who have no perception or idea of the deeper (if I may so express it) feelings of our nature, to call all this romance; but those who have tasted bitterly of the ills of this world, and who look back upon times past as doth the traveller in the desert on viewing from afar the oasis he has left—upon their transitory existence as a troubled dream—these can feel how deeply solitude amidst the sublimities of Nature will heal the troubled mind. Is there not a responsive chord in the hearts of such of my readers? Early one morning, soon after my arrival at Landwithiel, I proceeded over land to a distant part of the parish, to visit a ruin situated in a wild and remote spot, which possessed some degree of historical interest. In the evening I decided on returning by the coast in order to vary my route. The day had been clear and sultry, and though the wind blew fresh from the southward, yet its refreshing influence seemed exhausted by the intense heat of the sun. In my progress along shore, though it was getting late, and I was somewhat fatigued, I could not resist the opportunity of exploring a sort of natural opening or cove in a part of the coast where the cliffs were unusually precipitous; affording the geologist the highest gratification; you were reminded indeed of the flat surface of a stone wall in many parts, which effect the regular stratification of the rocks contributed to produce; and it required no great stretch of fancy to imagine it one vast fortification, with loop-holes at regular intervals—at a short distance from seaward certainly it would be difficult to divest a stranger of the idea that it was something artificial. Two high points of rock contracting at their extremities in a circular direction so as almost to meet, ran into the sandy beach, and you found on advancing beyond the narrow entrance, a considerable space, which gradually extended to something like an oblong square, with a sandy bottom everywhere, surrounded by the same lofty cliffs which composed the adjacent coast. I was much surprised that I had never heard of this place before; it had apparently been more the effect of some natural convulsion than of the encroachment of the sea, and at the further end was a high mass of shingles, seaweed, and fragments of rock packed closely together by the tide. On examination I discovered, about the centre of the shingles, a large stone cross, carved out of a projecting part near the base of the cliff. It bore simply the initials W.D. and though the surrounding rocks were thickly covered with seaweed and barnacles, yet the cross itself was perfectly clean, and bore marks of recent care. Some singular event had evidently occurred in this retired and desolate place. I loitered a considerable time in musing and examining the spot, regardless of the whining and uneasiness of my Newfoundland dog, Retriever, when I was suddenly and fully aroused by the sharp echo and plashing of the tide against the rock, within the entrance of the cove. I now recollected with alarm that it was a spring flood, and that I had heard the tide sets in on this part of the coast with extraordinary velocity. I ran hastily forward, expecting to escape with a mere wetting, along the base of the rocks to an opening which I had passed about half a mile to the westward. I had just grounds of alarm. The mouth of the cove as I have already stated, extended some way abruptly into the beach. On wading to its extremity I found the tide already breaking in impetuous surf towards the foot of the cliffs, and it was now so far advanced as to preclude any hope of escape from that quarter; for the sands shelved in for some way on each side of the projecting entrance, and if I gained the foot of the cliffs I feared that I must inevitably be dashed to pieces before reaching the opening. In the calmest weather on the coast, exposed to all the fury of the Atlantic, the spring tides come in with a heavy swell; on this occasion they were aided by the wind, and I had to retreat with precipitation before an angry and threatening mass of waves, which broke many feet over the spot I occupied the moment before, with a noise like a discharge of artillery.
The night was gathering in, and the report of each successive wave, fraught as it were with my death warrant, struck on my heart like a funeral knell. Was there no hope of escape in the cove itself? no difficult path to the rocks aloft? were the questions I rapidly put to myself. An examination made as well as the darkness of the place permitted, convinced me that my hopes were vain and transitory. I now gave way to a sort of momentary despair; every instant was abridging my chance of life, and the sudden and frightful feeling that you are to be called on unprepared, to die, rushed on my mind with a choking sensation. I listened for some time at the entrance of one of the caverns, which the violence of the sea had excavated in picturesque confusion round the foot of the cliffs, to the sullen moaning and dashing of the tide, when my attention was rivetted by the sweet music of a female voice on the heights above, singing in a wild and elevated strain. It came over me with a sense so deep and clear, that I listened for a few minutes as if my life were in every note. At this instant a fishing boat passed under sail near the mouth of the cove. I shouted with despair, but my voice was lost in the echo of the rocks; it passed fleeting by, and with it my last chance of life. The shout had aroused the strange singer; she arose, advanced to the very extremity of the precipice, where one quiver would have been certain death, and flinging her arms towards the ocean, called out as I imagined from her gestures, to some imagined form. What could this fair apparition mean? I distinctly saw her tall white figure and hair on the sky line (for the moon was near rising) fluttering in the wind. She must either be mad or a spirit, I exclaimed, shouting again and again to her for help; but either my words were lost in the distance, or she regarded them not, for she seated herself, and began to sing in the same wild style as before. This was most extraordinary: a momentary tinge of superstition passed across my mind, but it was speedily dissipated by the exclusive feelings of my situation. Slowly did I see the waves dashing forward to their destined goal, hemming in every chance of escape. I retreated step by step till I reached the shingles, as if greedy of the space which measured out to me my last race of life. My existence was in a span. Great God! I exclaimed, am I then to perish thus—"without a grave, unkennelled, uncoffined, and unknown"—my once sunny home—those faces dearer than heart's blood—the days of my childhood passed over my spirit—my mind was crowded with the images of by-gone days; half an hour more and this breathing form would be clay. Yet how dreadful a death! my poor dog howled and looked up in my face as a violent rush of tide burst against the base of the rocks. Already I imagined the sea around me, lessening my moments of life inch by inch—the tide bubbling about my throat as I clung to the rock for help: I fancied I could have borne any death rather than this lingering misery.
I rallied: my feelings were unmanly. The moon had risen in unclouded brilliancy, gleaming on the heaving and rippled surface of the dark blue main; I looked up to the tranquil firmament, and the reflection was bitter. Pealing along with the voice of the ocean, the wild and lofty strains from the singular figure aloft, like a gentle brook commingling its waters with a vast and rapid river—failed not during this time to keep up my excitement. The sea was now fast covering the shingles; one chance was yet before me, which the instant I reflected on, I hesitated not to put into execution. It could at worst be only exchanging one death for another, and death would have been a boon indeed, rather than the longer endurance of that deeply agonizing state of suspense. I can fancy my faithful dog, by his actions, had anticipated this resolution: his joyful bark as I sprung forward into the waves, still rings in my ear. He was a dog of prodigious size and strength: holding by his shaggy neck with one hand, I assisted myself in swimming along by him with the other, intending after clearing the mouth of the cove, to make for the opening in the rocks to landward. I felt invigorated with new life, though the chances against me were still precarious, on account of the distance, as we went through the plashing waves with the broad expanse of ocean again before me. The sea was now tolerably calm along shore, for the tide was far advanced, and I had hardly swam twenty yards from the mouth of the cove when a Landwithiel fishing-boat came in sight almost within hail. An involuntary prayer came to my lips; I sung out with all the energy which the hope of life could produce; she was alongside in a trice, and in a few minutes I was sailing for Landwithiel Pier, merrily, at the rate of eight knots an hour. I found on detailing my adventure, which greatly surprised the fine fellows who picked me up, that the cove was called Dawlish's Hole; and that the apparition of the white lady on the rocks was one of flesh and blood, not an airy vision.
"Poor Ellen Dawlish," said Sam Clovelly, my informant, "once the pride of the parish—poor thing! her day has long since gone by; she is always worse when the moon's full; but it's a long yarn, sir, and you'll learn all about her and the wild skipper, as we used to call him, (that's her husband) far better up at the "Ship-Aground" yonder, than I can tell you."
The only consequence that resulted from the adventure thus providentially terminated, was a wet jacket; but a brisk fire, a glass of grog, and a warm welcome in my host's capacious settle, helped to banish it from my recollection. My worthy friend, Sam Clovelly, was not mistaken; my interest, which was deeply awakened, received a strong whet from the narrative which Mr. Sheepshanks related, and though wearied with the day's adventure, I did not go to rest till I had heard the conclusion of his somewhat prolix story. I afterwards happened to know more, indeed, of the circumstances alluded to; and though the day's incident was of a frightful nature, yet I look back upon it as the means of introducing me to the knowledge of events connected with the history of the last surviving member of an ancient family, to me of deep interest. I pause: the reader may hear more of the FATE OF WALTER DAWLISH.