hat this church
has only a single bell. But as he frankly confessed, in after life,
that he had invented the story on the very slightest foundation, it is
better to avoid quoting from the ballad, except solely for the
melodious smoothness of its burden:--

"Come to thy God in time,
Thus saith the ocean chime;
Storm, whirlwind, billow past,
Come to thy God at last."

[Illustration: ST. KNIGHTON'S KIEVE.

_Photo by Alex. Old._]

Boscastle, taking its name from the old Norman family of Bottreaux
(though there are many other place-names in Cornwall beginning with
_bos_, which means abode or dwelling-place), is certainly the most
romantic and picturesque haven in the Duchy, though there may be
others that surpass it in actual beauty. The coast has a wild grandeur
rather than loveliness, and in dismal or stormy weather there is a
weird, solemn gloom. The little town lies sheltered at the head of a
gorge in which two rivulets meet and form the haven. Old Leland in his
graphic manner mentions one only of these brooks: "There cummith down
a little broke from South-Est out of the Hilles thereby, and so
renning by the West side of the Towne goith into Severn Se betwixt two
hilles, and there maketh a pore Havenet, but of no certaine
salvegarde." It is the river Valency of which he speaks, the more
important of the streams that join just above the haven. This is a
tiny land-locked harbour with stone piers, at which some coal, lime,
and general merchandise are imported; the entrance is very difficult
to make, and vessels that succeed in doing so have to be warped in by
immense hawsers. Seeing this, and the small haven at Bude, one
realises the wildness of this unsheltered coast, where such perilous
places are called harbours. The village, though not large, is a long
one, straggling down a hill and along the narrow ravine. Its activity
is maintained by the daily arrival and departure of cars from
Camelford, Bude, Otterham, and Tintagel, bringing many visitors in the
summer season. Some come to stay, but most make only a fleeting call;
Nature has placed grave obstacles in the way of Boscastle's ever
becoming a fashionable watering-place. Its charm is unique and
undeniable; but it appeals to the artist, the sturdy pedestrian and
climber, the lover of solitude that at times is absolute desolation,
rather than to the parent of a family. But the desolation, if that is
not too stern a word to use, only applies to the