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RECOLLECTIONS OF A WANDERER.

A scene on the coast of Cornwall.

A short time before my departure from the hamlet of Landwithiel,[4] I was awoke early one morning by the roaring of the wind in the huge old chimney of my room—­the whole tenement, indeed, occasionally shook as a violent gust swept down the valley, tossing the branches of the stout old tree before the door to and fro in a way that threatened at last to level them with the dust.  The very briny scent of the atmosphere convinced me there was some sea running in the bay; and it was the more unexpected as we had had no tokens of a storm for several days previous.  From the peninsular situation of this county, surrounded on almost every side with the restless ocean and exposed to the wide sweep of the Atlantic, it may be supposed that storms are of frequent occurrence.  As on the present occasion, they often come with little or no warning; and the effects of a hurricane in the distant main, far outstripping the wind, sometimes rolls with tremendous fury towards our western shores, on which the sea is encroaching in every part.

    [4] See “Recollections of a Wanderer,” Mirror, Nos. 430-475.

Landwithiel was a wild little place.  It was essentially a “fishing village.”  The people ploughed the deep, not the land; and the constant exposure—­blow high, blow low—­on the restless sea, endued its inhabitants, and the Cornish fishermen generally, with a fearlessness of danger and boldness of character almost unequalled in these islands.  The lives and pursuits of the two great classes in this county—­the maritime and mining population—­are widely opposite to each other.  The one class pass their existence on the stormy waters of the deep, whilst the other labour far below the surface of the earth; each being continually exposed to numberless perils and dangers.

When I descended below I found my host already astir; so after attending well to the inward man, I lost no time in starting towards the harbour.  As I formerly described, this comes abruptly in sight round a sharp angle, at some elevation from the beach.  On the upper part of the descent the road was flanked on each side with a row of cottages, the street being so steep that steps were formed in many parts to aid the progress of the passenger.  This gave an air of singularity and wildness to the place, which was aided by the boldness of the surrounding scenery.  The street bore all the marks of the occupation of the inhabitants—­nets hanging to dry—­strings of fish—­an old oar—­or a “fisher’s wife” broiling fish for her husband’s breakfast—­met the eye on either side.

On clearing the street, I observed a larger throng on the old pier than was wont to gather there on ordinary occasions.  There was obviously some unusual subject of interest agitated amongst them; so I turned from my course and joined the group.