DOI Heft:
No. 196 (July, 1909)
DOI Artikel:Garstin, Norman: West Cornwall as a sketching ground
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.20967#0139
West Cornwall as a Sketching Ground
“at the foot of the hill, roseworthy” (water-colour)
BY S. J. LAMORNA BIRCH
(By permission of the Fine Art Society)
clothed by nature. Like slumbering volcanoes
these mines periodically come back into life and
activity in response to some mysterious promptings
from Tokenhouse Yard, and then i elapse into
quiescence in sympathy with decreasing dividends.
The marshlands lie in the hollow of the land
from whose high lip one looks over the broad bay
of St. Michael’s Mount. St. Michael has a pro-
prietary interest, it seems, in all lofty and picturesque
piles of rock and masonry, and one feels the dig-
nity of his charge. The
Mount lines the eastern
shore hard by the little
town of Marazion, or
Machel Jew. It insists,
perhaps a little too ob-
viously, upon its pictur-
esqueness. The Mount
is one of those beauties
that love to be seen in
shop windows, but the
artist and the judicious
lover have this in common:
that they like to see the
effect of their own wooing;
their egotism desires that
the fruition of their hopes
should come only after
some assiduities, and not
drop into their arms or
canvases without any coy-
ness. Such beauties are
common property, they
have no secrets, no Equal-
izes cacheesf
At the other end of
the white curve of beach
stands Penzance, rising
from the harbour in a
gentle slant. Artists are
like rats—they seek water,
and very much for the
same reason, because they
both manage to pick up
a living more easily about
the purlieus of harbours
and wharves or by streams
than in dry places. From
the harbour of Penzance
the grey town rises most
effectively; the square
tower of St. Mary’s floats
in the basin amongst
Norwegian iceships and
wriggles amongst the steam trawlers with their
many-coloured funnels. The dome of the market
place, too, reflects itself in the tide, which, how-
ever, leaves the harbour dry for a good part of
each day. The little town has some individ-
uality of character left, in spite of the modern
streets that spread themselves here and there with
a depressing uniformity of design. There still
remain small backwaters where the flavour of older
days yet lingers. It is a busy little town, and on
“at the foot of the hill, roseworthy” (water-colour)
BY S. J. LAMORNA BIRCH
(By permission of the Fine Art Society)
clothed by nature. Like slumbering volcanoes
these mines periodically come back into life and
activity in response to some mysterious promptings
from Tokenhouse Yard, and then i elapse into
quiescence in sympathy with decreasing dividends.
The marshlands lie in the hollow of the land
from whose high lip one looks over the broad bay
of St. Michael’s Mount. St. Michael has a pro-
prietary interest, it seems, in all lofty and picturesque
piles of rock and masonry, and one feels the dig-
nity of his charge. The
Mount lines the eastern
shore hard by the little
town of Marazion, or
Machel Jew. It insists,
perhaps a little too ob-
viously, upon its pictur-
esqueness. The Mount
is one of those beauties
that love to be seen in
shop windows, but the
artist and the judicious
lover have this in common:
that they like to see the
effect of their own wooing;
their egotism desires that
the fruition of their hopes
should come only after
some assiduities, and not
drop into their arms or
canvases without any coy-
ness. Such beauties are
common property, they
have no secrets, no Equal-
izes cacheesf
At the other end of
the white curve of beach
stands Penzance, rising
from the harbour in a
gentle slant. Artists are
like rats—they seek water,
and very much for the
same reason, because they
both manage to pick up
a living more easily about
the purlieus of harbours
and wharves or by streams
than in dry places. From
the harbour of Penzance
the grey town rises most
effectively; the square
tower of St. Mary’s floats
in the basin amongst
Norwegian iceships and
wriggles amongst the steam trawlers with their
many-coloured funnels. The dome of the market
place, too, reflects itself in the tide, which, how-
ever, leaves the harbour dry for a good part of
each day. The little town has some individ-
uality of character left, in spite of the modern
streets that spread themselves here and there with
a depressing uniformity of design. There still
remain small backwaters where the flavour of older
days yet lingers. It is a busy little town, and on