rock, matted with ivy and creeping plants, and crowned with the feathery boughs of the mountain ash. I remember passing through the valley on a fine autumnal afternoon, when this rock presented a very different scene from its present solitary grandeur. A field preacher had happily chosen a jutting point on the eminence for his temporary pulpit, and there he stood like a Druid of old, sending forth his exhortations to the assembled villagers, who in holiday attire were seated in groups on the sward beneath. There was something very striking in the aspect of these rustic worshippers. The preacher was a young enthusiastic man; his voice sounded well in the open air; and as he stood bare-headed on the projecting rock, pointing to the unclouded heavens above him. My mind (unconsciously comparing small things with great) reverted to the figure of John the Baptist preaching in the wilderness, and even to that of our blessed Lord himself delivering his sermon on the mount to the hushed multitudes. It was in scenes such as this that our Saviour delighted to wander, gathering pearls from the sea-shore, and treasures from the lilies of the field. "Behold how they grow" exclaimed he to his Disciples, "they toil not neither do they spin," and yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." I have seen a crowded audience in a fashionable conventicle hanging on the words of a popular preacher:-I have beheld the imposing rites of catholic worship in a gilded and proudly decorated foreign Cathedral :-I have listened to the eloquence of a Chalmers, or an Alison, and heard the elevated strain of French pulpit oratory, but never was my mind so impressed with the solemnity of divine worship as when gazing on the field preacher, lifting up his voice in the grand temple of nature, and by the simple words of scripture, raising the souls of villagers to a communion with their God. The impression made upon us when on descending towards the river their mingled voices in hymns of praise arose with softened harmony will never be forgotten. When we reached the long rustic bridge or "clam" which crosses the stream the worshippers were hidden from our view, but still their chaunt of adoration sounded in our ears and hallowed the lovely scenery we looked upon. We paused on the centre of the bridge and following with our eyes the windings of the stream as it came tumbling and roaring through its broken channel, saw another line of rocks rising from one bank, while the other was fringed to the water's edge with thickly entangled wood. Being noted scramblers we were tempted to turn back, and try the hidden recesses of "the sylvan shades" which were easily gained by wading through marshes cunningly concealed by the shining foliage. However we accomplished our design, and contrived to wander as far as an old ruined mill whose 66 dizzying wheel" I believe has rest for ever. Many tempting little "bits" would have arrested our pencil, had we not thought it time to journey homewards. Having traversed the clam, and passed a deserted mine, once known as South Wheal Friendship, where much of the riches of the neighbourhood lie buried," full fifty fathoms deep," we found our way through some corn fields, catching another distant view of the village of Petertavy and the Combe, and proceeded through a brake, and by the pretty farm of Edyemead, to Harford bridge. The shadows deepened as we proceeded on our road; and the landscape was mellowed into one hazy mass by the soft twilight, but we were cheered by the loud "harvest home" of the reapers, and the shrill whistle of the black-bird as it chaunted its vesper hymn to nature. We returned home by the Oakhampton road;—I would advise all pedestrians to follow the same course through the fields to Harford bridge, as the high-way by Wheal Friendship mine (of which more anon) is long and tiresome. |