Tintagel, Arthur's old palace by the sea, is
certainly one of the most romantic spots in
England. It stands on a desolate precipice of
slate rock, which seems rent by an earthquake
into two parts, the sea having undermined it.
Half the castle stands on the mainland and
half on the isolated rock, where the citadel and
chapel are. Many of the walls have fallen,
those that remain are shattered and ruinous.
Leland describes it as having been "a marvellous
strong and noble fortress," almost impregnable,
and on a high and terrible crag, with a
drawbridge crossing the chasm.

The old landing place Porthleaven, the "Iron
Gate" at the foot of the promontory, is
supposed to be British work of great antiquity.
Tintagel is Tennyson's "many- towered Camelot,"
where the wise and brave king once held court,
with gentle Gawain, Launcelot the champion
of the lake, and generous Sir Tristram. Fuller
calls the son of Pendragon "the British
Hercules." This Tintagel, "the impregnable
fortress," the stronghold of the princes of
Cornwall, is frequently mentioned in old
romances. It was supposed to become invisible
twice in every year. "Dunchine," the castle
of the Cleft, is mentioned in Doomsday Book.
When the Earls of Cornwall held it, Earl
Richard, the son of King John, entertained here
his nephew David, Prince of Wales. It next
became a crown prison. In 1385 a lord mayor
of London was sent here for a contumacious
mayoralty; but in Elizabeth's reign the grave
Burleigh shook his head at the cost of the
repairs, and allowed the sea and storm at last to
conquer. A curse seems on the place now; no
lichens spot the stones, no ivy grows over
them; there they stand, bare as the sea-vexed
rocks below. The cliffs here are hung with
samphire. The people of Bossiney believe
that Arthur still haunts these ruined battlements,
in the shape of a chough or a raven.
Cervantes mentions this superstition in his Don
Quixote. "Have you not read in the famous exploits
of King Arthur, of whom there goes
an old tradition that this king did not die, but
that by magic art he was turned into a raven,
and that in process of time he shall reign again,
and recover his kingdom and sceptre, for which
reason it cannot be proved that from that time
to this any Englishman has killed a raven?"
The name of Arthur's discreditable queen,
Guinivere, is still common in Cornwall under
the disguised form of "Jennifer."

Strange to think, that perhaps, where those
cushions of sea pinks that cover the top of the
citadel cliff now grow, Arthur and his knights
once trod. Wild sea birds scream where the
harpers once sang the praises of their king.
The glory and the praise are gone; no words of
love or courage are heard now, only the sound
of the mournful waves; as Sir Bedivere said:

          The whole Round Table is dissolved,
          Which was an image of the mighty world,
          And the days darken round me and the years,
          Among new men, strange faces, other minds.

The crow has a fair westward flight before
him now along the wild north Cornish coast,
where the granite cliffs are reddened as if with
the blood of seamen that have been so often
hurled against them by the cruel sea, and left
to perish at their base. Every village along
this storm-swept coast, this churchyard of
sailors, has its own strange legend of vapoury
phantom ships, of fairy dances round old
cromlechs on the moors, of saints' miracles,
of daring smugglers and the caverns they
haunted, of mermaids and their love for the
sons of men, of giants and their wars, of King
Arthur and his knights, of wreckers and their
savagery, of witches and their cantrips, of old
churches, and the consecrated bells that
rejoice and sorrow within their crumbling salt–
corroded towers.

Forrabury (Bottreaux) church, that stands
on the cliff above Boscastle, a town situated
in a little seaside ravine, like a small
Balaclava, has a fine legend, which the Rev. Mr.
Hawker, the Cornish poet, has immortalised.
The tower has no bells. From the silent tower
of Bottreaux, says Mr. Wilkie Collins, no
chimes have ever sounded for a marriage, no
knell has ever been heard for a funeral. The
reason for the silence is this. Centuries ago
the Forrabury people resolved to have a peal
of bells which should rival those at Tintagel,
which rang merrily at the marriage, and tolled
mournfully at the death of King Arthur. The
bells were cast, blessed with cross and sigil, and
while still warm from the foundry, shipped
for Forrabury. The bark had a halcyon
journey with its blessed burden, and was soon
in sight of the slate rocks of Bottreaux.
As the vesper bell sounded from Tintagel,
the pious pilot crossed himself, and knelt to
thank God for the safe and prosperous voyage.
The mocking captain sneered on his piety.
"Thank God?" said he; "forsooth, thank my
hand at the helm; thank the good ship and the
stout canvas; thank me at sea, and thank the
saints when at home." The pilot reproved
him, but in vain. The vessel was already
approaching the harbour, the people of Forrabury
stood on the cliffs hailing the white sails
every moment looming larger. All at once a
supernatural wave rolled mountains high
towards the vessel; it sank before it without a
struggle. The impious captain and the cursing
crew all perished, the pious pilot alone was
saved. And now, when a storm is brooding,
and the sea grows troubled with a mighty
anger, the bells of Forrabury are still heard
deep below the waves, tolling for the dead.
From that day to this the tower of Bottreaux
has remained silent.

In a valley running up from the sea near
Boscastle stands the ancient mossy church of
Minster, overlooking a dell of old oak trees.
The tower of this church was pulled down
centuries ago. The local legend has it, that the
monks of old time used to place a light in
one of the windows of the tower, to guide
belated worshippers at night to their altar.
Whether the monks had a special horror of
wreckers, we know not, but certain it is that