From the house in which Admiral Lord Exmouth passed his boyish days
there was a pleasant footpath, long after that time, through the fields
to Alverton, separated from the lane by a high hedge and shady trees;
and the lane itself, from the Ellises’ Mansion (or the site of the
Western hotel) to the seat of the Daniels, in Alverton (or probably the
Jenkin’s at that time), was like a bower all the way, with the
overhanging trees, except a good strip of green extending from Mr. F.
Boase’s house down almost to the pathway leading to Alverton well. On
this green the fair was formerly held. It has but recently been removed
to a field. All the highroads at this time were pleasant green lanes.
There was no such thing as a cart West of Penzance. Here and there an
ox-butt might be found. We will return to the green lanes, and those
who jogged along them on bow-pad or pillion, when we come to take a
retrospective view of the country.
PARSON SPRY, THE CURATE OF SENNEN AND ST. LEVAN, HALF A CENTURY AGO,
AND HIS WOODEN HORSE AND DOG “SPORT.”
Before leaving this part of the town, let us cast a glance at the three
or four little cottage-like dwellings just opposite the lane leading to
the Well fields, on the higher side of the entrance to The Hollies.
These cottages were regarded as very genteel residences, half a century
ago, before the North Parade and some score of other terraces, which
now form the most pleasant portions of the town, were ever born or
thought of. Then, the cottage nearest to The Hollies’ gate was the
residence of the Rev. William Spry, many years curate of Sennen and St.
Levan. The reverend gentleman was one of those eccentric, or
independent, characters who pay no regard either to conventional modes
or to the opinion of those who have no need to trouble themselves about
their harmless whims. His dapper little figure, dressed up in the most
anti-clerical, not to say ridiculous, of costumes, must still be well
remembered by many in town and country. Notwithstanding his eccentric
vagaries, he was always a welcome guest, for the sake of his
never-failing good humour, quick repartee, and the droll stories of
which he was generally the hero. His most extravagant freaks were
mostly harmless, and always amusing, at least to the spectators (yet
with all the care taken to qualify his characteristics, we may have to
make some exceptions when the parson mounts his wooden horse.)
When in the reading-room, public library, or any other place of resort
for gentlemen of the town, the parson was always the centre of
attraction and fun. One day, in the library, Mr. Spry was, as usual,
relating some of his amusing drolls, when an elderly gent, Gen. Tench
(who very much liked to hear himself talk), finding that he could not
have the chance to get in a word edgeways even, interrupted the parson
by saying “Come, Mr. Spry, as you appear to know a great deal about
everything, be pleased to explain the difference between a major canon
and a minor canon?” “Pho! pho!” replied Mr. Spry, in his lisping
accent, “what a general! not to know the difference between a major
cannon and a minor cannon. Why a major cannon is a great gun, and a
minor cannon is a thun (son) of a cun (gun), to be thure (sure.)” The
general wheeled on his heels, and went away without firing any more of
his guns at the parson for that day.
The reverend gentleman, finding the hire of a horse to take him to the
scene of his clerical duties more than he could well afford out of his
slender income, took it into his head to have a velocipede, hoping,
with the assistance of the machine, to be able to ride out to the
Land’s End at his ease, hills excepted, when he would have to drag his
horse. He first exercised his wooden horse, by way of breaking it in,
on the descent from St. Just lane’s end to Alverton. He was very proud
of his horse, when he found it would run down the hill with so much
speed. The next market day, early in the morning, the parson stationed
himself, mounted on his horse, on the top of Tul-tuf hill, to challenge
anybody coming from, or going to the market, to try a race, always down
the hill be it understood. Plenty of the farmers desired no better fun
than to try a race with the parson on his wooden horse; but their own
nags, not knowing what to make of the parson’s queer beast, going like
the wind on three legs, in their fears and doubts about the nature of
the thing threw their riders in the ditch, and sprung over the hedges,
that they might not be overtaken by what they must have thought a most
unnatural-looking affair. So the parson won the wager, and boasted long
and loud that his horse was the best in the West; but in the last race
that Thursday morn, the three-legged Bucephalus attained such velocity
in descending the hill near Alverton that it became quite unmanageable
and fairly ran away with its gallant rider as fast as its wheels could
spin. When it came to Alverton water (there was no bridge over the
water which then worked the old factory) several market women were on
their nags, in the midst of the pooled-up water, to let their horses
drink and breathe awhile.
Whilst their heavy baskets of butter and eggs rested carelessly on
their knees to give rest to their weary arms whilst having a chat, in
dashed the parson, on his horse, in the very midst of them. He tumbled
over in the water, with the machine between his legs. All the women
were thrown off their horses, which galloped away—some home, some like
mad into the town to their accustomed yards and stables, others ran
they didn’t know where; but fancy what a wreck was there, with the
broken eggs, barm-jars, butter, and baskets on the road, or floating
down the stream! The women were so exasperated that they half-killed
the parson between them. In the heat of their passion they pelted him
with butter and eggs, then rolled him in the mud, until luckily some
gentlemen came to the rescue of the parson and his steed.
The next Sunday the reverend gentleman being unable to attend to his
duties at the Land’s End, his parishioners, as well as most of the
people of the West, who had congregated at St. Levan church and along
the roads, hoping to see the parson racing his horse, were much
disappointed. The fame of his Thursday’s adventure had spread far and
near, so that such a gathering was never seen before in the church
except at the feasten tide. Against the following Sunday the parson had
sufficiently recovered his broken skin and his courage to be off early
in the morning, for fear of disappointing his congregation again. The
people waited long about the cliff and Rospletha hill, looking out in
vain; at last, fearing some accident had happened, from seeing neither
sight nor sign of their pastor, a good number of them proceeded along
the road towards Penzance, two miles or more, when they saw the
parson’s well-known dog, Sport, coming towards them. Sport testified
his joy at seeing some of his friends, and ran back, yelping and
barking, and looking behind him to beg the people to follow him fast.
In a few minutes, on turning the corner of Cotneywilley, they found the
parson and his horse in a deep pool of mud at the bottom of the hill,
or rather the runaway steed was deep in the muddy hole. The rider had
contrived to scramble out and shake himself just as they arrived. Old
Mr. Ellis, of Trendrennen, being among the people who came to the
relief of their forlorn pastor, he was helped along to that old
gentleman’s house, which the parson usually made his resting-place.
Mr. Spry never trusted his wooden horse to make such long journeys any
more, and people of the two western parishes, who liked their parson
very much, because he was very sociable, never wearied them with
tiresome platitudes, nor bothered them with what some call deep (that
is inexplicable) dogmas and notions, were very indulgent, and never
complained whether he came early or late, or stayed away for weeks
together on account of bad weather.
“SPORT’S” BEHAVIOUR AT CHURCH AND IN CHURCHYARD.
The doings of the parson’s handsome black dog Sport added much to the
interest of the Sunday’s performances. Sport seemed to think that some
dogs belonging to his master’s parishes had not so much right to enjoy
church privileges as himself. To others—larger dogs than himself—he was
more indulgent, and even condescended to wag his tail at them, but woe
to any audacious dog of a smaller size, or a shorter tail, that
presumed to venture into the more respectable or parson’s portion of
the church East of the rud locks (rood loft.) Sport would then show the
rustic dogs the colour of his teeth and drive them into the belfry,
where the other country dogs would follow to see fair play, or perhaps
to give the town-bred puppy a bite by the sly, if they saw their own
comrade likely to get the worst of the game.
One Sunday, a dog belonging to a farmer who sat near the chancel,
seemed inclined to come nearer the parson’s ground than he liked. Both
dogs then said as plain as looks could express, “Come then, to decide
which shall look the biggest; let’s try our right, down in the belfry,
by a quiet bit of a fight.” Off walked the two dogs, began and
continued their fight without making much noise, until the parson was
in the midst of reading the second lesson. Then Sport gave some
dreadful yells, which so much alarmed his master, that he stopped
reading, bundled up his surplice under his arm, ran in all haste down
to the belfry, drove out the country dog, and shut in his own by way of
penance among the shovels, brooms, pickaxes, bell-ropes, planks, and
other lumber. When the parson returned to the reading-desk, he leaned
over towards the old clerk, and asked “Where was I, Josey?” meaning the
verse of the lesson at which he left off. Uncle Josey, the clerk, being
rather deaf, like most deaf people spoke rather loud—loud enough to be
heard all over the church—when he intended only to whisper “Where war
’e? What do ’e mean, master? Why down in the belfry, parting the dogs
to be sure!” Sport took it in high dudgeon, to be imprisoned like a
felon. When he found barking and howling of no use towards procuring
his release from durance vile, he contrived to entangle himself in the
bell-rope (left dangling up and down) by getting his head into the
running noose, made by the sexton for his foot, to assist in tolling
the great bell, which Sport set a ringing and soon rung himself out.
Another day, whilst the parson was reading the burial service over the
defunct, his dog Sport behaved himself in a very unseemly manner, for
such a solemn occasion, by kicking up a dust among the dry-bones,
howling at the mourners, catching their dresses in his mouth, and
renting off yards of the deepest affliction or crape from the young
widow, and other such like pranks. The parson, reading, with one eye on
the book, the other on his dog, at the end of every portion where the
clerk had to respond Amen, called “Sport!” and Sport replied with a
bark. At the conclusion, in the same breath with the words, “Ashes to
ashes, dust to dust, I commit this body to the ground,” the parson
called out louder than ever “Sport! Sport! Come here;” turning quickly
round at the same time as if to catch the dog and bury him.
There is much more told by good folks of the two most western parishes
about the freaks of this reverend gentleman who had the cure of their
souls half a century ago; but enough has been related to give some idea
of the greater simplicity of those times, when there certainly was not
the same sourness, and disposition to magnify faults and failings into
mortal sins, as there is now by the rampant religionists, who display
their ferocious virtue principally by circulating slander, under the
guise of pity for those who do not choose to adopt their morbid
notions, whining cant, and grimace.
A short time after the velocipede adventure, Mr. Spry removed hence to
Morwelham, and soon became as well known on the Tamar as here, for his
eccentric freaks.