An Unsentimental Journey through Cornwall by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

Author:Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Cornwall (England : County) -- Description and travel
ISBN: 9783958649125
Publisher: Otbebookpublishing
Published: 2017-10-20T00:00:00+00:00

THE STEEPLE ROCK, KYNANCE COVE.

"Not my young people," was the dignified answer. "My girls are up there, on Asparagus Rock, which is easy enough climbing. They promised not to go farther, and they never disobey their mother and me. But those two! I declare he is taking her to the most dangerous part, that rock where you have to jump—a good jump it is, and if you miss your footing you are done for, you go right into the boiling waves below. Well, it's no business of mine; she is his own property; he is engaged to her, but"—

I fear I made some very severe remarks on the folly of a young man who could thus risk life and limbs—not only his own, but those of his wife to be; and on the weakness of a girl who could allow herself to be tempted, even by a lover, into such selfish foolhardiness.

"They must manage their own affairs," said the old gentleman sententiously, perhaps not being so much given to preaching (out of the pulpit) as I was. "My daughters are wiser. Here come two of them."

And very sensible girls they looked, clad in a practical, convenient fashion, just fitted for scrambling. By them I sent a message to my own girls, explaining the best descent from Asparagus Island, and repeating the warning against attempting Hell's Mouth.

"Yes, you are quite right," said my elderly friend, as we sat down together on the least uncomfortable stone we could find, and watched the juniors disappear over the rocks. "I like to see girls active and brave; I never hinder them in any reasonable enjoyment, even though there may be risk in it—one must run some risk—and a woman may have to save life as well as a man. But foolhardy bravado I not only dislike—I despise it."

In which sentiments I so entirely agreed that we fraternised there and then; began talking on all sorts of subjects—some of them the very serious and earnest subjects that one occasionally drops into by mere chance, with mere strangers. I recall that half hour on Kynance Sands as one of the pleasant memories of our tour, though to this day I have not the remotest idea who my companion was. Except that as soon as he spoke I recognised the reader whose voice had so struck me in last night's thanksgiving service; reminding me of Frederick Denison Maurice, whom this generation is almost beginning to forget, but whom we elders never can forget.

The tide was creeping on now—nay, striding, wave after wave, through "parlour" and "drawing-room," making ingress and egress alike impossible. In fact, a newly arrived party of tourists, who had stood unwisely long contemplating the Bellows, were seen to gaze in despair from their rock which had suddenly become an island. No chance for them except to wade—and in a few minutes more they would probably have to swim ashore. What became of them we did not stay to see, for an anxious, prudent little voice, always thoughtful for "mother," insisted on our precipitate flight before the advancing tide.

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