EXHIBITS THE MANAGING DIRECTOR AND THE SECRETARY OF WHEAL DOOEM IN
CONFIDENTIAL CIRCUMSTANCES, AND INTRODUCES THE SUBJECT OF "LOCALS."
About this time that energetic promoter of mining operations, Mr George
Augustus Clearemout, found it necessary to revisit Cornwall.
He was seated in an easy-chair in a snug little back-office, or
board-room, in one of the airiest little streets of the City of London,
when this necessity became apparent to him. Mr Clearemout did not
appear to have much to do at that particular time, for he contented
himself with tapping the arm of his easy-chair with the knuckles of his
right hand, while he twirled his gold watch-key with his left, and
smiled occasionally.
To judge from appearances it seemed that things in general were
prospering with George Augustus. Everything about him was new, and, we
might almost say, gorgeous. His coat and vest and pantaloons had a look
and a cut about them that told of an extremely fashionable tailor, and a
correspondingly fashionable price. His rings, of which he wore several,
were massive, one of them being a diamond ring of considerable value.
His boots were faultlessly made, quite new, and polished so highly that
it dazzled one to look at them, while his linen, of which he displayed a
large quantity on the breast, was as white as snow--not London snow, of
course! Altogether Mr G.A. Clearemout was a most imposing personage.
"Come in," he said, in a voice that sounded like the deep soft whisper
of a trombone.
The individual who had occasioned the command by tapping at the door,
opened it just enough to admit his head, which he thrust into the room.
It was a shaggy red head belonging to a lad of apparently eighteen; its
chief characteristics being a prolonged nose and a retracted chin, with
a gash for a mouth, and two blue holes for eyes.
"Please, sir, Mr Muddle," said the youth.
"Admit Mr Muddle."
The head disappeared, and immediately after a gentleman sauntered into
the room, and flung himself lazily into the empty armchair which stood
at the fireplace _vis-a-vis_ to the one in which Mr Clearemout sat,
explaining that he would not have been so ceremonious had he not fancied
that his friend was engaged with some one on business.
"How are you, Jack?" said George Augustus.
"Pretty bobbish," replied Jack. (He was the same Jack whom we have
already introduced as being Mr Clearemout's friend and kindred spirit.)
"Any news?" inquired Mr Clearemout.
"No, nothing moving," said Jack languidly.
"H'm, I see it is time to stir now, Jack, for the wheel of fortune is
apt to get stiff and creaky if we don't grease her now and then and give
her a jog. Here is a little pot of grease which I have been concocting
and intend to lay on immediately."
He took a slip of paper from a large pocket-book which lay at his elbow
on the new green cloth-covered table, and handed it to his friend, who
slowly opened and read it in a slovenly way, mumbling the most of it as
he went on:--
"`WHEAL DOOEM, in St. Just, Cornwall--mumble--m--m--in 10,000 shares.
An old mine, m--m--every reason to believe--m--m--splendid lodes visible
from--m--m. Depth of Adit fifty fathoms--m--depth below Adit ninety
fathoms. Pumps, whims, engines, etcetera, in good working order--m--
little expense--Landowners, Messrs.--m--Manager at the Mine, Captain
Trembleforem--m--thirteen men, four females, and two boys--m--water--
wheels--stamps--m--Managing Director, George Augustus Clearemout,
Esquire, 99 New Gull Street, London--m--Secretary, John Muddle,
Esquire--ahem--'"
"But, I say, it won't do to publish anything of this sort just yet, you
know," said Secretary Jack in a remonstrative tone, "for there's nothing
doing at all, I believe."
"I beg your pardon," replied the managing director, "there is a good
deal doing. I have written to St. Just appointing the local manager,
and it is probable that things are really under way by this time;
besides, I shall set out for Cornwall to-morrow to superintend matters,
leaving my able secretary in charge here in the meantime, and when he
hears from me this paper may be completed and advertised."
"I say, it looks awful real-like, don't it?" said Jack, with a grin.
"Only fancy if it should turn out to be a good mine after all--what a
lark _that_ would be! and it might, you know, for it _was_ a real one
once, wasn't it? And if you set a few fellows to sink the
what-d'ye-call-'ems and drive the thingumbobs, it is possible they may
come upon tin and copper, or something of that sort--wouldn't it be
jolly?"
"Of course it would, and that is the very thing that gives zest to it.
It's a speculation, not a swindle by any means, and admirably suits our
easy consciences. But, I say, Jack, you _must_ break yourself off
talking slang. It will never do to have the secretary of the Great
Wheal Dooem Mining Company talk like a street boy. Besides, I hate
slang even in a blackguard--not to mention a black-leg--so you must give
it up, Jack, you really must, else you'll ruin the concern at the very
beginning."
Secretary Jack started into animation at this.
"Why, George," he said, drawing himself up, "I can throw it off when I
please. Look here--suppose yourself an inquiring speculator--ahem! I
assure you, sir, that the prospects of this mine are most brilliant, and
the discoveries that have been made in it since we commenced operations
are incredible--absolutely incredible, sir. Some of the lodes (that's
the word, isn't it?) are immensely rich, and upwards of a hundred feet
thick, while the part that runs under the sea, or _is_ to run under the
sea, at a depth of three thousand fathoms, is probably as rich in copper
ore as the celebrated Botallack, whose majestic headland, bristling with
machinery, overhangs the raging billows of the wide Atlantic, etcetera,
etcetera. O George, it's a great lark entirely!"
"You'll have to learn your lesson a little better, else you'll make a
great mess of it," said Clearemout.
"A muddle of it--according to my name and destiny, George," said the
secretary; "a muddle of it, and a fortune _by_ it."
Here the secretary threw himself back in the easy-chair, and grinned at
the opposite wall, where his eye fell on a large picture, which changed
the grin into a stare of surprise.
"What have we here, George," he said, rising, and fitting a gold glass
in his eye--"not a portrait of Wheal Dooem, is it?"
"You have guessed right," replied the other. "I made a few sketches on
the spot, and got a celebrated artist to put them together, which he has
done, you see, with considerable effect. Here, in the foreground, you
observe," continued the managing director, taking up a new white
pointer, "stands Wheal Dooem, on a prominent crag overlooking the
Atlantic, with Gurnard's Head just beyond. Farther over, we have the
celebrated Levant Mine, and the famous Botallack, and the great Wheal
Owles, and a crowd of other more or less noted mines, with Cape
Cornwall, and the Land's End, and Tolpedenpenwith in the
middle-distance, and the celebrated Logan Rock behind them, while we
have Mounts Bay, with the beautiful town of Penzance, and St. Michael's
Mount, and the Lizard in the background, with France in the remote
distance."
"Dear, _dear_ me! quite a geographical study, I declare," exclaimed
Secretary Jack, examining the painting with some care. "Can you really
see all these places at once from Wheal Dooem?"
"Not exactly from Wheal Dooem, Jack, but if you were to go up in a
balloon a few hundred yards above the spot where it stands, you might
see 'em all on a very clear day, if your eyes were good. The fact is,
that I regard this picture as a triumph of art, exhibiting powerfully
what is by artists termed `bringing together' and great `breadth,'
united with exceedingly minute detail. The colouring too, is high--very
high indeed, and the _chiaroscuro_ is perfect--"
"Ha!" interposed Jack, "all the _chiar_ being on the surface, and the
_oscuro_ down in the mine, eh?"
"Exactly so," replied Clearemout. "It is a splendid picture. The
artist regards it as his _chef_ _d'oeuvre_, and you must explain it to
all who come to the office, as well as those magnificent geological
sections rolled-up in the corner, which it would be well, by the way, to
have hung up without delay. They arrived only this morning. And now,
Jack, having explained these matters, I will leave you, to study them at
your leisure, while I prepare for my journey to Cornwall, where, by the
way, I have my eye upon a sweet little girl, whose uncle, I believe, has
lots of tin, both in the real and figurative sense of the word.
Something may come of it--who knows?"
Next morning saw the managing director on the road, and in due time he
found his way by coach, kittereen, and gig to St. Just, where, as
before, he was hospitably received by old Mr Donnithorne.
That gentleman's buoyancy of spirit, however, was not quite so great as
it had been a few months before, but that did not much affect the
spirits of Clearemout, who found good Mrs Donnithorne as motherly, and
Rose Ellis as sweet, as ever.
It happened at this time that Oliver Trembath had occasion to go to
London about some matter relating to his deceased mother's affairs, so
the managing director had the field all to himself. He therefore spent
his time agreeably in looking after the affairs of Wheal Dooem during
the day, and making love to Rose Ellis in the evening.
Poor Rose was by no means a flirt, but she was an innocent,
straightforward girl, ignorant of many of the world's ways, and of a
trusting disposition. She found the conversation of Mr Clearemout
agreeable, and did not attempt to conceal the fact. Mr Clearemout's
vanity induced him to set this down to a tender feeling, although Rose
never consciously gave him, by word or look, the slightest reason to
come to such a conclusion.
One forenoon Mr Clearemout was sitting in Mr Donnithorne's dining-room
conversing with Rose and Mrs Donnithorne, when the old gentleman
entered and sat down beside them.
"I had almost forgotten the original object of my visit this morning,"
said the managing director, with a smile, and a glance at Rose; "the
fact is that I am in want of a man to work at Wheal Dooem, a steady,
trustworthy man, who would be fit to take charge--become a sort of
overseer; can you recommend one?"
Mr Donnithorne paused for a moment to reflect, but Mrs Donnithorne
deeming reflection quite unnecessary, at once replied,--"Why, there are
many such men in St. Just. There's John Cock, as good a man as you
could find in all the parish, and David Trevarrow, and James Penrose--
he's a first-rate man; You remember him, my dear?" (turning to her
worse half)--"one of our locals, you know."
"Yes, my dear, I remember him perfectly.--You could not, Mr Clearemout,
get a better man, I should say."
"I think you observed, madam," said Mr Clearemout, "that this man is a
`local.' Pray, what is a local?"
Rose gave one of her little laughs at this point, and her worthy aunt
exclaimed,--"La! Mr Clearemout, don't you know what a local preacher
is?"
"Oh! a _preacher_? Connected with the Methodist body, I presume?"
"Yes, and a first-rate man, I assure you."
"But," said Mr Clearemout, with a smile, "I want a miner, not a
preacher."
"Well, he is a miner, and a good one too--"
"Allow _me_ to explain, my dear," said Mr Donnithorne, interrupting his
spouse. "You may not be aware, sir, that many of our miners are men of
considerable mental ability, and some of them possess such power of
speech, and so earnest a spirit, that the Wesleyan body have appointed
them to the office of local preaching. They do not become ministers,
however, nor are they liable to be sent out of the district like them.
They don't give up their ordinary calling, but are appointed to preach
in the various chapels of the district in which they reside, and thus we
accomplish an amount of work which could not possibly be overtaken by
the ordinary ministry."
"Indeed! but are they not untrained men, liable to teach erroneous
doctrine?" asked Mr Clearemout.
"They are not altogether untrained men," replied Mr Donnithorne. "They
are subjected to a searching examination, and must give full proof of
their Christianity, knowledge, and ability before being appointed."
"And good, excellent Christian men many of them are," observed Mrs
Donnithorne, with much fervour.
"Quite true," said her husband. "This James Penrose is one of our best
local preachers, and sometimes officiates in our principal chapel. I
confess, however, that those who have the management of this matter are
not always very judicious in their appointments. Some of our young men
are sorely tempted to show off their acquirements, and preach
_themselves_ instead of the gospel, and there are one or two whom I
could mention whose hearts are all right, but whose brains are so
muddled and empty that they are utterly unfit to teach their fellows.
We must not, however, look for perfection in this world, Mr Clearemout.
A little chaff will always remain among the wheat. There is no system
without some imperfection, and I am convinced that upon the whole our
system of appointing local preachers is a first-rate one. At all events
it works well, which is one of the best proofs of its excellence."
"Perhaps so," said Mr Clearemout, with the air of a man who did not
choose to express an opinion on the subject; "nevertheless I had rather
have a man who was _not_ a local preacher."
"You can see and hear him, and judge for yourself," said Mr
Donnithorne; "for he is, I believe, to preach in our chapel to-morrow,
and if you will accept of a seat in our pew it will afford my wife and
myself much--"
"Thank you," interrupted Mr Clearemout; "I shall be very glad to take
advantage of your kind offer. Service, you say, begins at--"
"Ten precisely," said Mr Donnithorne.