A Book of Cornwall

Off the coast lies Looe Island. This was for many years the dwelling-place of a man named Fyn and his sister, "Black Joan." They were son and daughter of an outlaw, who had spent his life since his outlawry on the Mewstone off Gara Point, at the entrance of Plymouth Sound. Here he and his wife lived a wild life like sea-mews, and there reared their young, who grew up without any religious, moral, or intellectual training. The outlaw died on the Mewstone, and Fyn and his sister, accustomed from infancy to an island life, could not endure the thought of going to the mainland for the rest of their days, and so they settled on Looe Island. Here they were joined by a negro, and by their united efforts honeycombed the ground under their hovel and the large barn adjoining for the accommodation of smuggled goods. Their only associates were the free-traders.

One day the black man vanished, and it was never known what had become of him, whether he had left or been murdered by Fyn and his sister. There were naturally no witnesses; nothing could be proved against them. Recently a skull has been dug up near the house, and is kept in a box in the dwelling, but it is not that of a negro. Actually there is a layer of human remains about two feet below the surface of the turf, exposed on the east side of the island, where wind and spray are gnawing away the cliff, and any number of teeth and bones may be picked out. Whether these are the remains of an early Christian monastic cemetery, or of shipwrecked sailors buried on the cliffs, cannot be told, as no investigation has been made to discover the approximate period to which this layer of dead men's bones belongs.

Formerly there was a chapel on the summit of the island, but only its foundations remain. The island belonged to the monastery of Lamana (lan-manachau, the church of the monks) on the mainland.

But to return to the Fyns.

On that island they spent many years, hand in glove with the smugglers.

There was an old fellow, a farmer on the mainland, who rode a white horse into Looe. He acted as spy, and was intimate with the preventive men, who trusted him, and perhaps some of them had their palms greased to give him information. If the white horse were seen returning along the coast road to the west, that was a signal to Fyn that all was safe. But sometimes the horse was too lame or tired to return home, and the farmer went his way on foot; that always coincided with activity among the officers of the revenue.

From Looe Island, Fyn or his sister signalled by lights to the smugglers lying in the offing.

At length their daring and their success induced the Government to establish one of their guard on the island itself-the station is still there-and the man was bidden keep a watchful eye on Black Joan and her brother.

Now the Fyns had their secret stores full of a cargo they desired to run ashore, but were afraid of being seen by this man.

One day Black Joan hastened to the preventive officer with, "Oh, my dear! Now ther's that terr'ble put out I be. What du'y think now? My boat hev a broke her moorings, and is driftin' wi' the tide out to say. Oh, my dear man, du'y now bring her in for me." The officer ran to the cliff, and sure enough there was the boat slowly floating away on the ebb of the tide.

Being a good-natured man, and suspecting no ill, he at once got into his own boat and rowed hard after that which was adrift. The moment he was gone, a swarm of boats and men appeared on the shore on the further side of the island, and before the fellow was back, every keg had been carried across to the mainland.

But the officer in command had great difficulties with the station on Looe Isle. Partly through Black Joan's fascinations, mainly through the liberal flow of drink at the hut of the Fyns, and the tedium of the long evenings in solitude, he could never rely on a man who was sent to Looe Island. In some way or other he was bamboozled, so that goods were landed there and transferred to the mainland almost as freely as formerly.

What was the end of this family I have not learned.

A few years ago, when a picnic party went to the island and were allowed the barn to feed in, as a drizzle had come on, suddenly the floor collapsed, and it was thus discovered that beneath was a cellar for the accommodation of spirits that were not intended to pay duty.

The East and the West Looe rivers unite above the bridge, where also formerly stood a most picturesque tidal mill. Each stream runs through a narrow, well-wooded valley, and passes points of some interest. Ascending the East Looe, we have on the right the creek of Morval with the ancient house of the Bullers. Further up on the left is Duloe, with S. Cuby's holy well, and a so-called Druidical circle. The place takes its name from being between the two Looes. Higher up again on the same side is S. Keyne, with an interesting church and a well, the story of which is sufficiently known, made the subject of a ballad by Southey.

Liskeard is a town that was surmounted by a castle that has now disappeared. Its name implies that it was a lis or court on a rock. A copious spring, once a holy well, pours forth from the rock and supplies the town. But no ancient masonry remains about it.

Liskeard Church has an interesting lych-gate, a fine tower, and a good pulpit of 1627. At Menheniot (Maen-hên-Niot, the old stone of S. Neot) are some fine camps, Padesbury and Blackaton Rings. Clicker Tor, under which runs the line, is an outcrop of serpentine, which stone does not reappear till the Lizard is reached. A visit to S. Neot, with its superb old windows, should on no account be omitted. No collection of ancient stained glass comparable to it exists elsewhere in Devon or Cornwall.

The West Looe flows past several camps, two of which are in Pelynt parish. The church here is dedicated to S. Nun, mother of S. David, and her gabled holy well remains in tolerable condition. In this parish also is Trelawne, the seat of the Trelawny family, an ancient house, but much modernised. It contains some fine portraits, and in the church is a model of the pastoral staff of Bishop Jonathan Trelawny, Bishop of Bristol, and afterwards successively of Exeter and Winchester. He was one of the seven bishops who had been committed to the Tower by James II. Of him the song was sung: -

"A good sword and trusty sword!
A merry heart and true!
King James's men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do!

"And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die?
There's twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why.

"Out spake their captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he;
If London Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawny free!

"We'll cross the Tamar, land to land,
The Severn is no stay-
With One and All and hand in hand,
And who shall bid us nay?

"And when we come to London Wall,
A pleasant sight to view,
Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all,
Here's men as good as you.

"Trelawny he's in keep and hold,
Trelawny he may die-
But twenty thousand Cornish bold
Will know the reason why!"

With the exception of the choral lines-

"And shall Trelawny die?
Here's twenty thousand Cornishmen
Will know the reason why!"

the rest is mainly, if not wholly, the composition of the late Rev. R. S. Hawker, of Morwenstow. It was written by him in 1825, and was printed first in a Plymouth paper, and then by Mr. Davies Gilbert, the antiquary and historian. It appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine of November, 1827. Sir Walter Scott, and later, Lord Macaulay, quite thought it was a genuine ancient ballad.

That it is not an antique is almost certain, as it has no local and original air to which it is set; it is sung to "Le Petit Tambour," and no old miners or labourers know it.

There is a novel by Mrs. Bray, Trelawny of Trelawne, written in 1834, that relates to this house, and by no means deserves to be forgotten. Mrs. Bray's novels, though old-fashioned, are guides to the neighbourhood of Tavistock, and that just mentioned interests the reader in the district about Trelawne.[17 - A new edition was published by Longmans in 1845.]

"Looe," says she, "beautiful as it is, is not to be compared to Polperro, two miles distant from Trelawne. The descent to it is so steep, that I, who was not accustomed to the path, could only get down by clinging to Mr. Bray's arm for support; it was slippery, and so rocky that in some places there were steps cut in the road for the convenience of the passenger. The view of the little port, the old town in the bottom (if town it can be called), the cliffs, and the spiked rocks, that start up in the wildest and most abrupt manner, breaking the direct sweep of the waves towards the harbour, altogether produced such a combination of magnificent coast scenery as may truly be called sublime."

Access to Polperro is very much easier than it was in 1833, when visited by Mrs. Bray. A good many of the quaint old houses have been pulled down, but the place is still eminently picturesque, and is a haunt of artists.

In 1807, the year of the treacherous peace of Tilsit, privateering was carried on briskly at Polperro. Among other vessels, the Lord Nelson sailed from this port, manned by a crew of hardy and experienced sailors. After cruising in the Channel for a week without success, she put into Falmouth for provisions. Here she was boarded by the Recruit, and several of the men were impressed. Amongst these was one Robert Jeffrey, who had been brought up as a blacksmith by his stepfather. The Recruit was a sloop-of-war commanded by Captain Lake, which at once sailed for the West Indies. Whilst cruising in the Caribbean Sea, Jeffrey got at a barrel of spruce beer. The captain, very angry, ordered the boat to be lowered, and Jeffrey to be taken to a barren rock and left there.

The order was obeyed with some reluctance, and the poor young fellow was deserted on the rock, without food, and with nothing save a kerchief, a knife, and a piece of wood, which had been given him by his comrades for the purpose of signalling any passing ship.

The place on which he had been left was the islet of Sombrero, one of the Leeward group, desolate and treeless, a naked lump of rock, with no springs. Jeffrey suffered frightfully from hunger, and worse from thirst.

The Recruit, on leaving the island, steered for Barbadoes to join the squadron under the command of Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane. The story of Jeffrey's punishment got wind, and the admiral, hearing of it, severely reprimanded Captain Lake for his brutality, and ordered him to return to Sombrero and rescue Jeffrey if he were still alive. Captain Lake accordingly went back to the islet, but found no one on it. A pair of trousers (not Jeffrey's) and a tomahawk handle were the only vestiges of humanity discoverable. The admiral was satisfied that the poor fellow had been rescued by some passing ship, and let the matter rest.

The story was, however, so widely circulated, that on his return to England Captain Lake was court-martialled and cashiered.

Whilst this was passing, the greatest uncertainty existed as to the man's fate. His wrongs were commented on in the House by Sir Francis Burdett, and the case was kept so perseveringly before the public, that the Government issued orders for a strict inquiry to be made as to whether he were still alive or dead.

Presently an account was received, purporting to be by Jeffrey, giving an account of his rescue and his condition in America; but as to this was appended a cross for his signature, whereas Jeffrey was known to have been able to write, the public were led to suspect that this was a fabrication contrived by Lake's relatives and friends.

To settle the matter finally, a ship was despatched to bring Jeffrey home, and he arrived at Portsmouth in October, 1810, three years after his adventure on the island of Sombrero.

His escape had been due to his signals of distress having been seen and responded to by the captain of an American schooner, but when taken on board he was too exhausted to speak. He was conveyed to Marblehead, in Massachusetts, where he had remained working at a forge, and had culpably neglected to send home word of his escape. The reason he gave for not having signed the paper relative to his being taken off Sombrero was that it was presented to him by gentlemen, and he was too nervous in their presence to append his proper signature.