Mark, where they writhe with pride and shame, Fierce valour, and the zeal of fame; Hear how their din of madness raves, The baffled army of the waves! Thy way, O God! is in the sea; Thy paths where awful waters be: Thy Spirit thrills the conscious stone; O Lord! Thy footsteps are not known. FOOTNOTES: [41] From _All the Year Round_, vol. xiii. pp. 153-156. 1865. [42] 1834. [43] The Tamar. [44] The Torridge. [45] John Wesley. [46] And like Daniel Gumb. See p. 107. [47] _Vide_ p. 32, _et seq._ [48] See the essay, “Cruel Coppinger,” and Appendix F. [49] These are still preserved. They are little sand-glasses, shielded with brass, cylindrical in shape. The sand in one takes twenty-eight seconds to run, that in the other fourteen. [50] Hawker is not forgotten in Arbroath. A lecture was delivered there on February 18, 1903, by the Rev. A. E. Crowder, on “Cornwall: its Scenery, People, Antiquities, and Folklore.” The lecturer referred to Hawker and the wreck of the _Caledonia_. [51] For Hawker’s poem on this occasion, see p. 22. [52] “Gebir,” Book I., lines 216, 217. The usual version has “_hard_ wet sand.” Hawker and Landor (it may be remarked by the way) were in many respects kindred spirits. [53] Bude. [54] Probably Mr. George Casebourne, Civil Engineer, who married a sister of Mr. Hawker’s, and was for some years superintendent of the Bude Canal. BLACK JOHN[55] [Illustration: “BLACK JOHN” _From a picture formerly belonging to R. S. Hawker, now in the possession of Mrs. Calmady_] A picture hangs in my library--and it is one of my most treasured relics of old Cornwall--the full-length and “counterfeit presentment,” in oil, of a quaint and singular dwarf. It exhibits a squat figure, uncouth and original, just such a one as Frederick Taylor would delight to introduce in one of his out-of-door pieces of Elizabethan days, as an appendage to the rural lady’s state when she rode afield with her hawk on her wrist. His height is under four feet, hump-backed and misshapen; his head, with tangled elfy hair falling wildly on his shoulders, droops upon his chest. Negro features and a dark skin surround a loose and flabby mouth, which teeth have long ceased to harmonise and fill out. He is clad in a loose antique russet gaberdine, the fashion of a past century: one hand leans on a gnarled staff, and the other holds a wide-brimmed felt hat, with humble gesture and look, as though his master stood by.