"I love the land where acres broad
Are clothed in yellow grain;
Where cot of thrall and lordly hall
Lie scattered o'er the plain.
Oh! I have trod the velvet sod
Beneath the beechwood tree;
And roamed the brake by stream and lake
Where peace and plenty be.
But more than plain,
Or rich domain,
I love the bright blue sea!
"I love the land where bracken grows
And heath-clad mountains rise;
Where peaks still fringed with winter snows
Tower in the summer skies.
Oh! I have seen the red and green
Of fir and rowan tree,
And heard the din of flooded linn,
With bleating on the lea.
But better still
Than heath-clad hill
I love the stormy sea!"
The air ceased, and Oliver, stepping in at the open door, found Rose
Ellis with a Spanish guitar resting on her knee. She neither blushed
nor started up nor looked confused--which was, of course, very strange
of her in the circumstances, seeing that she is the heroine of this
tale--but, rising with a smile on her pretty mouth, shook hands with the
youth.
"Why, cousin," said Oliver, "I had no idea you could sing so
charmingly."
"I am fond of singing," said Rose.
"So am I, especially when I hear such singing as yours; and the song,
too--I like it much, for it praises the sea. Where did you pick it up?"
"I got it from the composer, a young midshipman," said Rose sadly; at
the same time a slight blush tinged her brow.
Oliver felt a peculiar sensation which he could not account for, and was
about to make further inquiries into the authorship of the song, when it
occurred to him that this would be impolite, and might be awkward, so he
asked instead how she had become possessed of so fine a guitar. Before
she could reply Mr Donnithorne entered.
"How d'ee do, Oliver lad; going your rounds--eh?--Come, Rose, let's have
breakfast, lass, you were not wont to be behind with it. I'll be bound
this gay gallant--this hedge-jumper with his eyes shut--has been
praising your voice and puffing up your heart, but don't believe him,
Rose; it's the fashion of these fellows to tell lies on such matters."
"You do me injustice, uncle," said Oliver with a laugh; "but even if it
were true that I am addicted to falsehood in praising women, it were
impossible, in the present instance, to give way to my propensity, for
Truth herself would find it difficult to select an expression
sufficiently appropriate to apply to the beautiful voice of Rose Ellis!"
"Hey-day, young man," exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, as he carefully filled
his pipe with precious weed, "your oratorical powers are uncommon!
Surely thy talents had been better bestowed in the Church or at the Bar
than in the sickroom or the hospital. Demosthenes himself would have
paled before thee, lad--though, if truth must be told, there is a dash
more sound than sense in thine eloquence."
"Sense, uncle! Surely your own good sense must compel you to admit that
Rose sings splendidly?"
"Well, I won't gainsay it," replied Mr Donnithorne, "now that Rose has
left the room, for I don't much care to bespatter folk with too much
praise to their faces. The child has indeed a sweet pipe of her own.
By the way, you were asking about her guitar when I came in; I'll tell
you about that.
"Its history is somewhat curious," said Mr Donnithorne, passing his
fingers through the bunch of gay ribbons that hung from the head of the
instrument. "You have heard, I dare say, of the burning of Penzance by
the Spaniards more than two hundred years ago; in the year 1595, I think
it was?"
"I have," answered Oliver, "but I know nothing beyond the fact that such
an event took place. I should like to hear the details of it
exceedingly."
"Well," continued the old gentleman, "our country was, as you know, at
war with Spain at the time; but it no more entered into the heads of
Cornishmen that the Spaniards would dare to land on our shores than that
the giants would rise from their graves. There was, indeed, an old
prediction that such an event would happen, but the prediction was
either forgotten or not believed, so that when several Spanish galleys
suddenly made their appearance in Mounts Bay, and landed about two
hundred men near Mousehole, the inhabitants were taken by surprise.
Before they could arm and defend themselves, the Spaniards effected a
landing, began to devastate the country, and set fire to the adjacent
houses.
"It is false," continued the old man sternly, "to say, as has been said
by some, that the men of Mousehole were seized with panic, and that
those of Newlyn and Penzance deserted their houses terror-stricken. The
truth is, that the suddenness of the attack, and their unprepared
condition to repel it, threw the people into temporary confusion, and
forced them to retreat, as, all history shows us, the best and bravest
will do at times. In Mousehole, the principal inhabitant was killed by
a cannon-ball, so that, deprived of their leading spirit at the critical
moment when a leader was necessary, it is no wonder that at _first_ the
fishermen were driven back by well-armed men trained to act in concert.
To fire the houses was the work of a few minutes. The Spaniards then
rushed on to Newlyn and Penzance, and fired these places also, after
which they returned to their ships, intending to land the next day and
renew their work of destruction.
"But that night was well spent by the enraged townsmen. They organised
themselves as well as they could in the circumstances, and, when day
came, attacked the Spaniards with guns and bows, and that so
effectively, that the Dons were glad to hoist their sails and run out of
the bay.
"Well, you must know there was one of the Spaniards, who, it has been
said, either from bravado, or vanity, or a desire to insult the English,
or from all three motives together, brought a guitar on shore with him
at Mousehole, and sang and played to his comrades while they were
burning the houses. This man left his guitar with those who were left
to guard the boats, and accompanied the others to Penzance. On his
return he again took his guitar, and, going up to a high point of the
cliff, so that he might be seen by his companions and heard by any of
the English who chanced to be in hiding near the place, sang several
songs of defiance at the top of his voice, and even went the length of
performing a Spanish dance, to the great amusement of his comrades
below, who were embarking in their boats.
"While the half-crazed Spaniard was going on thus he little knew that,
not three yards distant from him, a gigantic Mousehole fisherman, who
went by the name of Gurnet, lay concealed among some low bushes,
watching his proceedings with an expression of anger on his big stern
countenance. When the boats were nearly ready to start the Spaniard
descended from the rocky ledge on which he had been performing,
intending to rejoin his comrades. He had to pass round the bush where
Gurnet lay concealed, and in doing so was for a few seconds hid from his
comrades, who immediately forgot him in the bustle of departure, or, if
they thought of him at all, each boat's crew imagined, no doubt, that he
was with one of the others.
"But he never reached the boats. As he passed the bush Gurnet sprang on
him like a tiger and seized him round the throat with both hands,
choking a shout that was coming up, and causing his eyes to start almost
out of his head. Without uttering a word, and only giving now and then
a terrible hiss through his clenched teeth, Gurnet pushed the Spaniard
before him, keeping carefully out of sight of the beach, and holding him
fast by the nape of the neck, so that when he perceived the slightest
symptom of a tendency to cry out he had only to press his strong fingers
and effectually nip it in the bud.
"He led him to a secluded place among the rocks, far beyond earshot of
the shore, and there, setting him free, pointed to a flat rock and to
his guitar, and hissed, rather than said, in tones that could neither be
misunderstood nor gainsaid--
"`There, dance and sing, will 'ee, till 'ee bu'st!'
"Gurnet clenched his huge fist as he spoke, and, as the Spaniard grew
pale, and hesitated, he shook it close to his face--so close that he
tapped the prominent bridge of the man's nose, and hissed again, more
fiercely than before--
"`Ye haaf saved bucca, ye mazed totle, that can only frighten women an'
child'n, an burn housen; thee'rt fond o' singin' an' dancin'--dance now,
will 'ee, ye gurt bufflehead, or ef ye waant I'll scat thee head in
jowds, an' send 'ee scrougin' over cliffs, I will.'"
In justice to the narrator it is right to say that these words are not
so bad as they sound.
"The fisherman's look and action were so terrible whilst he poured forth
his wrath, which was kept alive by the thought of the smouldering embers
of his own cottage, that the Spaniard could not but obey. With a
ludicrous compound of fun and terror he began to dance and sing, or
rather to leap and wail, while Gurnet stood before him with a look of
grim ferocity that never for a moment relaxed.
"Whenever the Spaniard stopped from exhaustion Gurnet shouted `Go on,'
in a voice of thunder, and the poor man, being thoroughly terrified,
went on until he fell to the ground incapable of further exertion.
"Up to this point Gurnet had kept saying to himself, `He is fond o'
dancin' an' singin', let un have it, then,' but when the poor man fell
his heart relented. He picked him up, threw him across his shoulder as
if he had been a bolster, and bore him away. At first the men of the
place wanted to hang him on the spot, but Gurnet claimed him as his
prisoner, and would not allow this. He gave him his liberty, and the
poor wretch maintained himself for many a day as a wandering minstrel.
At last he managed to get on board of a Spanish vessel, and was never
more heard of, but he left his guitar behind him. It was picked up on
the shore, where he left it, probably, in his haste to get away.
"The truth of this story, of course, I cannot vouch for," concluded Mr
Donnithorne, with a smile, "but I have told it to you as nearly as
possible in the words in which I have often heard my grandfather give
it--and as for the guitar, why, here it is, having been sold to me by a
descendant of the man who found it on the seashore."
"A wonderful story indeed," said Oliver--"_if true_."
"The guitar you must admit is at least a fact," said the old gentleman.
Oliver not only admitted this, but said it was a sweet-sounding fact,
and was proceeding to comment further on the subject when Mr
Donnithorne interrupted him--
"By the way, talking of sweet sounds, have you heard what that
gruff-voiced scoundrel Maggot--that roaring bull of Bashan--has been
about lately?"
"No, I have not," said Oliver, who saw that the old gentleman's ire was
rising.
"Ha! lad, that man ought to be hanged. He is an arrant knave, a
smuggler--a--an ungrateful rascal. Why, sir, you'll scarcely believe
it: he has come to me and demanded more money for the jewels which he
and his comrade sold me in fair and open bargain, and because I refused,
and called him a few well-merited names, he has actually gone and given
information against me as possessor of treasure, which of right, so they
say, belongs to Government, and last night I had a letter which tells me
that the treasure, as they call it, must be delivered up without delay,
on pain of I don't know what penalties. Penalties, forsooth! as if I
hadn't been punished enough already by the harassing curtain-lectures of
my over-scrupulous wife, ever since the unlucky day when the baubles
were found, not to mention the uneasy probings of my own conscience,
which, to say truth, I had feared was dead altogether owing to the
villainous moral atmosphere of this smuggling place, but which I find
quite lively and strong yet--a matter of some consolation too, for
although I do have a weakness for cheap 'baccy and brandy, being of an
economical turn of mind, I don't like the notion of getting rid of my
conscience altogether. But, man, 'tis hard to bear!"
Poor Mr Donnithorne stopped here, partly owing to shortness of breath,
and partly because he had excited himself to a pitch that rendered
coherent speech difficult.
"Would it not be well at once to relieve your conscience, sir,"
suggested Oliver respectfully, "by giving up the things that cause it
pain? In my profession we always try to get at the root of a disease,
and apply our remedies there."
"Ha!" exclaimed the old gentleman, wiping his heated brow, "and lose
twenty pounds as a sort of fee to Doctor Maggot, who, like other doctors
I wot of, created the disease himself, and who will certainly never
attempt to alleviate it by returning the fee."
"Still, the disease may be cured by the remedy I recommend," said
Oliver.
"No, man, it can't," cried the old gentleman with a perplexed
expression, "because the dirty things are already sold and the money is
invested in Botallack shares, to sell which and pay back the cash in the
present depressed state of things would be utter madness. But hush!
here comes my better half, and although she _is_ a dear good soul, with
an unusual amount of wisdom for her size, it would be injudicious to
prolong the lectures of the night into the early hours of morning."
As he spoke little Mrs Donnithorne's round good-looking face appeared
like the rising sun in the doorway, and her cheery voice welcomed Oliver
to breakfast.
"Thank you, aunt," said Oliver, "but I have already breakfasted more
than an hour ago, and am on my way to visit my patients. Indeed, I have
to blame myself for calling at so early an hour, and would not have done
so but for the irresistible attraction of a newly discovered voice,
which--"
"Come, come, youngster," interrupted Mr Donnithorne, "be pleased to
bear in remembrance that the voice is connected with a pair of capital
ears, remarkable for their sharpness, if not their length, and at no
great distance off, I warrant."
"You do Rose injustice," observed Mrs Donnithorne, as the voice at that
moment broke out into a lively carol in the region of the kitchen,
whither its owner had gone to superintend culinary matters. "But tell
me, Oliver, have you heard of the accident to poor Batten?"
"Yes, I saw him yesterday," replied the doctor, "just after the accident
happened, and I am anxious about him. I fear, though I am not quite
certain, that his eyesight is destroyed."
"Dear! dear!--oh, poor man," said Mrs Donnithorne, whose sympathetic
heart swelled, while her blue eyes instantly filled with tears. "It is
so very sad, Oliver, for his delicate wife and four young children are
entirely dependent upon him and his two sons--and they found it
difficult enough to make the two ends meet, even when they were all in
health; for it is hard times among the miners at present, as you know,
Oliver; and now--dear, dear, it is very, _very_ sad."
Little Mrs Donnithorne said nothing more at that time, but her mind
instantly reverted to a portly basket which she was much in the habit of
carrying with her on her frequent visits to the poor and the sick--for
the good lady was one of those whose inclinations as well as principles
lead them to "consider the poor."
It must not be imagined, however, that the poor formed a large class of
the community in St. Just. The miners of that district, and indeed all
over Cornwall, were, and still are, a self-reliant, independent,
hard-working race, and as long as tough thews and sinews, and stout and
willing hearts, could accomplish anything, they never failed to wrench a
subsistence out of the stubborn rocks which contain the wealth of the
land. Begging goes very much against the grain of a Cornishman, and the
lowest depth to which he can sink socially, in his own esteem, is that
of being dependent on charity.
In some cases this sentiment is carried too far, and has degenerated
into pride; for, when God in His wisdom sees fit, by means of disabling
accident or declining health, to incapacitate a man from labour, it is
as honourable in him to receive charity as it is (although not always
sufficiently esteemed so) a high privilege and luxury of the more
fortunate to give.
Worthy Mrs Donnithorne's charities were always bestowed with such
delicacy that she managed, in some mysterious way, to make the
recipients feel as though they had done her a favour in accepting them.
And yet she was not a soft piece of indiscriminating amiability, whose
chief delight in giving lay in the sensations which the act created
within her own breast. By no means. None knew better than she when and
where to give money, and when to give blankets, bread, or tea. She was
equally sharp to perceive the spirit that rendered it advisable for her
to say, "I want you to do me a favour--there's a good woman now, you
won't refuse me, etcetera," and to detect the spirit that called forth
the sharp remark, accompanied with a dubious smile and a shake of her
fat forefinger, "There now, see that you make better use of it _this_
time, else I shall have to scold you."
Having received a message for poor Mrs Batten, the miner's wife, the
doctor left the cottage, and proceeded to pay his visits. Let us
accompany him.