The Cornwall Coast. Arthur L. Salmon

the parish of Lanteglos, known as Lanteglos-by-Fowey, to distinguish it from Lanteglos-by-Camelford. The accent, locally, is laid on the second syllable; and the name is a curious composite of Celtic and corrupted Latin. Taking the t as simply euphonious, we have the Celtic lan, first signifying an enclosure, then a sacred enclosure or consecrated ground, finally the church erected on such an enclosure; and eglos, a corruption of the Latin ecclesia, found elsewhere in Cornwall at Egloshayle and Egloskerry; the same word appearing usually in English place-names as Eccles, in Welsh as Eglwys, in Irish as Aglish or Eglish (Gaelic, eaglais). The llan or lan may generally be considered of earlier date than the eglwys or eglos. Lanteglos is a large parish, with which visitors chiefly become familiar by means of Polruan, a kind of suburb of Fowey across the river. To many persons the beauty and grandeur of the scenery will be more attractive than any antiquarian details, but there can be no harm in mentioning that the church of Lanteglos is dedicated to St. Wyllow, who is supposed to have had his cell here in the early days of Cornish saintdom, and to have been murdered by a relative who was probably an unrepentant pagan. The greater number of the parishioners live at Polruan, distant rather more than a mile; the church is surrounded by fields and lanes, whose luxuriant growth of bank and hedge suggest a rich humidity of soil. In summer there is a remarkable abundance of ragged-robins by the wayside, with honeysuckles and wild-roses clustering above them in glorious profusion; here and there rises the stately spire of a foxglove. Ferns of exquisite grace and loveliness dispute the right of existence with brambles and grasses and moss; and golden grain comes close to the churchyard wall. Standing as it does in such isolation, it is surprising to find that the church is a building of considerable size; but it is never rare to discover noble churches even in greater solitude than this—our forefathers did not measure the size of their churches in relation to the probable number of their congregations. Also, the fact that a church is out of sight does not always mean that it is out of mind; and when the fine, deep-sounding peal of Lanteglos bells rings for service on Sunday mornings, a good number of countryfolk wend their way through the lanes and meadows towards it. A rugged and time-worn Celtic cross keeps guard beside the porch, having, doubtless, stood here since the days when the first Christian missionaries found these monoliths of granite serving a pagan purpose, and transformed them with rough labour into the Christian symbol. There is another such cross standing on the hill about a mile distant, looking down on the little fishing harbour of Polruan, by which is also a holy well. It is not many years since Lanteglos Church was a disgrace to the country-side, by reason of the decay into which it had been allowed to fall; but that period of neglect is past, and a careful restoration has preserved the noble groining of the interior and the fine woodwork of the benches. The building, chiefly Decorated with Perpendicular tower, is specially notable for its admirable ribbed vaulting. The font is of earlier date, and near it are the parish stocks, once devoted to the confining of unruly legs. In the Lady Chapel, south of the chancel, where an abortive stairway points to the former existence of a rood-gallery, is a lovely altar, constructed mainly of pure alabaster, and the flooring before both altars is of highly polished marble. Here, too, are some fine old brasses to members of a family that has played its part in the nation's history; one member of which family, the duellist Mohun, is a prominent figure in Thackeray's Esmond. The Mohuns, coming from Dunster, settled at Hall House in this parish in the fourteenth century; it was doubtless in connection with them that the church once belonged to a Bridgwater foundation. But the Mohuns had removed to Boconnoc by the time that they achieved their greatest notoriety, in the person of Lord Charles, some of whose duels partook rather of the nature of assassination than of fair fight, the most notable being his slaying of the actor Mountford. It was in keeping with his life that Mohun should die in a combat of such fierceness that both the combatants, himself and the Duke of Hamilton, received mortal wounds. Hall House, near the Bodinnick side of the ferry from Fowey, is now a farm, embodying some remains of the old mansion. The Hall Walk above this eastern bank of the river gives a magnificent view of Fowey town and harbour. Fowey itself needs to be seen from such a spot to be fitly appreciated. The house was taken and held for the King by Sir Richard Grenville, and it is said that Charles, who was here in August, 1644, was nearly struck by a ball from across the river, Fowey being at that time in the hands of the Parliamentarian Essex.

      Bodinnick is just a tiny hamlet, a small cascade of houses tumbling to the riverside, with its own stone slip to meet the ferry at its foot. The road to this ferry is so steep as to be almost precipitous, and the cottages abutting on its side are embowered in fragrant bloom. There is a runnel of water at the roadside, and in one place this water is collected in a round stone basin that looks immensely old; from this it trickles forth again with coolness and musical plash. Having reached this spot, we may as well pass over into Fowey by the ferry here instead of by that from Polruan. If we had already come from Fowey to Bodinnick we should find that the ferryman would carry us back without further payment; the outward fee included a return—not like the ferry of Charon which had no return for passengers. The oars dip peacefully into the water, breaking its surface of glistening light; a delicious coolness, that phantom fragrance of water to which we can give no name, steals upward soothingly and sweetly.

      Fowey, whose position is strikingly like that of Dartmouth, is named from its river, which rises at Foy-Fenton on the Bodmin Moors and passes through Lostwithiel on its journey to the mouth. Mr. Baring-Gould derives its name, as that of the Fal, from the Celtic falbh, which means the "running or flowing," but the point is hardly clear. It is pleasant to turn from such disputations to the place itself, which has become famous in present-day romance as "Troy Town," the fanciful title bestowed by a gifted literary resident. The true street of this town may be said to be its river, where it is delightful to do one's business by water—much pleasanter than the narrow and somewhat dingy road that lies out of sight behind. Each garden has its boat moored at its foot, where the tide eternally whispers and gurgles and ripples. Sometimes the stream flows silently, though it may be with power; at other times it finds a voice by which the air is possessed and thrilled. The old stained walls, the rugged ladders by which the folk descend to their boats, are washed by the clear, pure waters; the shimmer of water enters the dwelling-rooms and is reflected on the ceilings, a fluctuating quiver of light, moved by every breeze that ruffles the surface of the stream. The small gardens are green to the edge of the walls that drop sheer to the river; these ladders and gardens are the true household gates. Here and there may be a small strip of quay, with the soil and grime of industry—perhaps the blackness of coal-dust; but the prevalent flavour is domestic. Higher up the river there may be more dissonance, where the steamboats are being laden with china-clay and stone; there is a clang of cranes, a rattle of machinery, a bustle out of unison with the placid water beneath, the dense woodland behind. Maritime doings seem to lose much of their beauty when they are dependent on steam—they cannot lose it all. For pure beauty we must go to the sailing-boat, whether it be the fisher's smack with red or tawny sail, the graceful yacht of pleasure, the schooner or barque of commerce. All these are represented in this lovely harbour within its protecting sea-gates; but none of them are represented intrusively; there is plenty of room, and there are delightful creeks running up into utter woodland solitude, like that one which is the pleasantest way of reaching Lanteglos Church.

      One feature of this Fowey creek is its constant clamour of seagulls. From morning to night their voice can be heard, sometimes with a noise of wrangling and discordance, sometimes in single cries of bodeful complaint. Occasionally the din is such that it is difficult to hear a friend speaking; the birds cluster and hover and swoop above with fierce argument and angry parleying. They are so accustomed to human presences that, even if sometimes a nuisance, they are more often a joy. They are never molested; they have a sense of privilege—the good women of the houses will come out and talk to them as one might to a pet canary. Very often the house-wife throws broken food to them, and laughs at their scramble for it—the birds' queer difficulty in settling downward on the water, the wide sweeps they take to reach what lies beneath, the awkward dives and tumblings when they are near the surface. In full flight they are graceful and buoyant, with an easy command of their passage; but in descending thus to snatch something from the tide they often appear clumsy. When the object they want is close beneath, they do not seem able to reach it without fluttering and effort; whereas if they see anything from a distance they can swoop down upon it with the greatest ease. Sometimes one will gather some morsel from the water or exposed beach, and soar away with it; if observed,