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mance. One approaches it to-day through a dark ravine that drops precipitously to the sea; and standing on the shore, one looks up and sees that the great cliff on the left has been rent asunder, how long ago cannot be told, leaving a chasm between the two ruined castles, in one of which Ygerne shut herself up against the guilty passion of Uther Pendragon, but in vain. Through that riven gate the wet wind rises and the sound of waves that are said never to be still; and one thinks of Hawker's noble image:

There stood Dundagel, throned: and the great sea
Lay, a strong vassal at his master's gate,
And, like a drunken giant, sobb'd in sleep!

Or, if the mood of the waters is more boisterous, it may be that Swinburne's swinging lines break on the memory, as he describes the carrying of Iseult, with the fire of the magic potion already in her veins, up the steep path, while King Mark and his knights cluster before the walls and look down on the climbing procession:

So with loud joy and storm of festival
They brought the bride in up the towery way
That rose against the rising front of day,
Stair based on stair, between the rocks unhewn,
To those strange halls wherethrough the tidal tune
Rang loud or lower from soft or strengthening sea,
Tower shouldering tower, to windward and to lee,
With change of floors and stories, flight on flight,
That clomb and curled up to the crowning height

Whence men might see wide east and west in one
And on one sea waned moon and mounting sun.
And severed from the sea-rock's base, where stand
Some worn walls yet, they saw the broken strand,
The beachless cliff that in the sheer sea dips,
The sleepless shore inexorable to ships,
And the straight causeway's bare gaunt spine between
The sea-spanned walls and naked mainland's green.

Inland from Tintagel, over the Camel River, stands Slaughter Bridge, where, according to tradition, Arthur was defeated in that great battle of the West, and where he got his death wound. Further on lies Dozmaré Pool, in the desolate moorland. Here it was that the King, wandering with Merlin, beheld an arm clothed in white samite rise out of the water, and in the hand the mystical sword Excalibur. And down to this same lake came Sir Bedivere from his stricken lord and cast the blade from him; and afterward appeared the barge bearing the three Queens, and wafted the dying man to his rest. It is not hard for a lover of poetry who stands on that shore when the homeless breeze is astir, to hear in imagination the cry that issued from the boat, breaking into

an agony

Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

But to the unlettered moormen the wailing of the storm is more likely to sound like the anguish of

a certain John Tregeagle of infamous memory, whose ghost, for an ancient, cruel sin, is compelled forever to bale the water of Dozmaré with a pierced limpet shell; while Satan himself lurks among the reeds and leaps, roaring, upon him if for a moment he slackens in his task. The country is haunted with these weary revenants who keep alive the memory of old wrongs, and not a few of Hawker's poems are a retelling of the local legends of this sort.

It is natural that those who travelled thither to gather up the traditions of the land should have included the little hamlet of Morwenstow in their pilgrimage. Tennyson, as I have said, did so in 1848, when he was working at his Idyls of the King, and he has left in his journal this brief record of the visit: "June 2nd -Took a gig to Rev. S. Hawker at Morwenstow, passing Comb valley; fine view over sea; coldest manner of Vicar until I told my name, then all heartiness. Walk on cliff with him; told of shipwreck." The note is brief and dry, as befits a great man writing of a lesser— lesser, although to some there is a note in Hawker's poem on the Sangraal which almost compensates for Tennyson's art and his finer graces of the spirit. But the solitary parson made more of the occasion and wrote out in his notebook one of the most graphic accounts of the Laureate that we possess. The passage is too long to repeat in full, but part of it may serve as an example of

the talent lavished by Hawker on letters and memoranda that have reached the public only by accident:

I found my guest at his entrance a tall swarthy Spanish-looking man, with an eye like a sword. He sate down and we conversed. I at once found myself with no common mind. All poetry in particular he seemed to use like household words, and as chance led to the mention of Homer's picture of night he gave at once a rendering simple and fine. "When the Sky is broken up and the myriad Stars roll down, and the Shepherd's heart is glad." It struck me that the trite translation was about the reverse motion of this. We then talked about Cornwall and King Arthur, my themes, and I quoted Tennyson's fine acct. of the restoration of Excalibur to the Lake. . . . [Follows the dialogue through which the poet's name was revealed to the host, and then] We went on our way to the rocks, and if the converse could all be written down it would make, I think, as nice a little book as Charlotte Elizabeth [Mrs. Hawker] could herself have composed. All verses— all lands-the secret history of many of his poems, which I may not reveal—but that which I can lawfully relate I will. We talked of the sea, which he and I equally adore. But as he told me strange to say Wordsworth cannot bear its face. My solution was, that nursed among the still waters with a mind as calm and equable as his lakes the Scenery of the rough Places might be too boisterous for the meek man's Soul. He agreed. We discussed ποντίων τε Κυμάτων, etc., and I was glad to find that he half agreed with a thought I have long cherished, that these words relate to the Ear and not to the Eye. [De Quincey, apparently unknown to Hawker, had expressed the same fancy, and elsewhere Hawker finds confirmation of it in a line of Catullus.]

He did not disdain a version of mine

ago:

made long

"Hark how old Ocean laughs with all his Waves."

Then, seated on the brow of the Cliff, with Dundagel full in sight, he revealed to me the purpose of his journey to the West.

I lent him Books and MSS. about King Arthur, which he carried off, and which I perhaps shall never see again. Then evening fell. He arose to go; and I agreed to drive him on his way. He demanded a pipe, and produced a package of very common shag. By great good luck my Sexton had about him his own short black dudheen, which accordingly the minstrel filled and fired. Wild language occupied the way, until we shook farewell at Combe. This, said Tennyson, has indeed been a day to be remembered, at least it is one which I shall never again forget. The Bard is a handsome well-formed man and tall, more like a Spaniard than an Englishman -black, long elflocks all round his face, mid which his eyes not only shine but glare. His garments loose and full, such as Bard beseems, and over all a large dark Spanish Cloak. He speaks the languages both old and new, and has manifestly a most bibliothec memory. His voice is very deep, tuneful and slow-an organ, not a breath. His temper, which I tried, seemed very calm -His spirits very low. When I quoted "My May of Life" [?] and again, "O never more on me," etc., he said they too were his haunting words.

All which may seem to concern Tennyson rather than the subject of this sketch, but there is a fascination in these meetings of the poets which always tempts one to linger; some breath of larger life blows from them to us, and for the

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