Cornish Saints and Sinners
_By the Same Author_
THE FISHERS
Crown 8vo.
[Illustration: THE SMUGGLERS.]
CORNISH
SAINTS & SINNERS
BY
J. HENRY HARRIS
WITH NUMEROUS DRAWINGS BY
L. RAVEN-HILL
[Illustration: THE ARMS OF CORNWALL.]
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMXV
NEW EDITION
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES, ENGLAND
_ILLUSTRATIONS_
THE SMUGGLERS _Frontispiece_
THE ARMS OF CORNWALL _page_ 1
FATHER JOHN AND THE CIDER _facing_ " 6
PADDLING " 9
ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT " 10
ST. MICHAEL AND THE CONGER _facing_ " 16
THE KEIGWIN ARMS, MOUSEHOLE " 19
DOLLY PENTREATH _facing_ " 22
LAND'S END " 27
LIGHT WINDS " 35
ASHORE " 36
THE VILLAGE SHOP, MOUSEHOLE _facing_ " 36
SMUGGLERS " 43
A SHORT CUT _facing_ " 48
LANYON QUOIT " 55
PADSTOW _facing_ " 60
COTTAGE, ST. IVES " 63
KING TEWDRIG AND THE SAINTS _facing_ " 64
ST. IA " " 66
ST. AGNES " 75
THE SMUGGLERS' CAVE " 76
THE LEGEND OF THE CHEESE-WRING _facing_ " 82
TRURO CATHEDRAL " 84
"TAKING SNUFF AND LOOKING LEXICONS" _facing_ " 88
THE PORCH, LAUNCESTON CHURCH " " 92
SMILER'S PIOUS CAT " 94
A CORNISH FISH-WIFE _facing_ " 98
A SIDE STREET " 100
OLD COINAGE STREET, PENZANCE " 114
BOSCASTLE HARBOUR _facing_ " 118
BRETON ONION-BOY " 122
MEVAGISSEY _facing_ " 126
A FISH-HAWKER " 136
TWO COTTAGES, MEVAGISSEY _facing_ " 144
AN OLD CORNER, ST. IVES " 147
ON THE SANDS " 156
THE PILLORY, LOOE " 157
MAKING CRAB POTS _facing_ " 158
A TAIL-PIECE " 167
AN ALLEY " 168
OLD NEWLYN _facing_ " 168
A CORNISH INTERIOR " 178
THE OLD MILL _facing_ " 178
PERRAN PORTH " 187
GORRAN HARBOUR " 188
HOMEWARD BOUND " 197
PRINCESS OLWEN IS CHANGED INTO A BRAMBLE _facing_ " 202
POLPERRO " 205
CARN BREA " 212
THE CHAPEL ROCK, BUDE _facing_ " 216
HIGH AND DRY " 222
"KNACKED BALS" (_disused mines_) " 223
MORWENSTOW CLIFFS _facing_ " 226
THE MANACLES " 232
"ONE DAY THE DEVIL, HAVING NOTHING TO DO,
BUILT A GREAT HEDGE FROM LERRIN TO LOOE"
_facing_ " 234
THE ROCHE ROCK " 237
NEWQUAY SANDS " 238
NEWQUAY _facing_ " 240
"THE SOUL OF TREGEAGLE IN PAIN" _facing_ " 244
FRONT DOORS " 248
A FAIR PROSPECT " 254
JOHN BURTON " 255
BARRACKS HOPP, FALMOUTH _facing_ " 256
THE PENRYN STOCKS " 263
ST. GOELAND AND THE SEA-GULL _facing_ " 268
THE DOG-FISH " 271
THREE MINUTES WITH A DOG-FISH _facing_ " 274
A STREET CORNER, ST. IVES " 280
FIGURE-HEAD OF THE "CALEDONIA," MORWENSTOW _facing_" 284
TINTAGEL " 291
YSEULT AND TRISTAN _facing_ " 294
THE DIGEY " 298
KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE _facing_ " 298
A CORNISH STILE " 309
LOW TIDE " 312
[Illustration: THE ARMS OF CORNWALL.]
_CORNISH SAINTS AND SINNERS_
CHAPTER I
We were three.
Guy Moore, who had scraped through his "final," and eaten his call
dinner, and talked sometimes of full-bottomed wigs and woolsacks.
George Milner, surnamed the "Bookworm."
Myself.
It was an old arrangement between Guy and myself to go somewhere as
soon as the Long Vacation commenced, and the Bookworm, a relation of
Guy's, was included on account of his health. The doctor told him that
if he did not take a timely rest now he'd never read all the books in
the British Museum library, which he had set himself to do before going
to Paris to read there, and then some other place, and so on. Bookworms
are like that. Our mutual friend was an earnest young man, and had the
reader's look about the eyes; and when he went to bed he read unknown
books in his sleep. The doctor said, "Get him away--plenty of air,
plenty of walking, no books."
We met in Guy's chambers, and talked Cornwall; but the trouble was with
the Bookworm, who wanted to take a truck-load of books with him.
We decided on going to Penzance, and then rambling just where we would.
A visit to the land of a lost language attracted the Bookworm, who at
once added a few score books to be read on the spot.
Guy was appointed guardian of the common purse, and empowered to make
all arrangements.
The books were left behind.
* * * * *
A splendid day in August we had for our run westward. The Bookworm
had a corner, and by-and-by the spirit of wonder crept over him as
he looked at the blue skies and the green grass. There was a world
outside of books, after all.
"Here's the briny! Out with your head, man, and suck it all in; it's
the wine of life," shouted Guy.
Up went all the blinds, and down went all the windows, and every one
who could gazed upon the blue sea shoaling into green with white-flaked
edging on the frizzling sands. It is the custom to pay this homage to
the sea for being good enough to be just where it is, between Starcross
and Teignmouth. Right and left, the Bookworm saw heads thrust out and
faces in ecstasy, as though the whole human freight of the flying
train was in rapt adoration. White handkerchiefs waved, and the pure
voices of children trilled spontaneous anthems whenever the vexatious
tunnels permitted them to gaze upon old England's symbol of power and
freedom. It was a new experience to the Bookworm, and it surprised him
that anything not printed and stitched and bound should stir so much
emotion. It was Nature's book in red sandstone and blue sea illuminated
by the sun, on which his tired eyes rested for a few moments; he felt
refreshed by the mere vision, his pulses throbbing with new sensations.
And when the vision passed in the broad valley of the Teign, he asked
simply--
"Is there more of this?"
"Plenty," said Guy, promptly.
According to Guy's account, we were to have just whatever we liked,
when we liked, and where we liked. Seascape and moorscape, hill and
vale, sailing and fishing, riding and driving, and golfing, and all
that sort of thing. And then there were certain mysterious regions
where we were to find tracks of the fairies, and come across odds and
ends of things, and people too. We were not to have any guide-books; he
insisted on that. What was the good of guide-books to fellows on their
rambles? Who cared how many yards he was from anywhere, or how many
miles it was from one place to another? All that was worth remembering
could be picked up on the spot, and then there wouldn't be any danger
of everything running into one blurred outline of travel, just as
happened to a fellow after tramping for weeks through picture-galleries
and curio-shops, and all that sort of thing. Guy said he knew a fellow
who did the whole county most thoroughly guide-book in hand. He started
from Bude, and did the north coast; and then he turned around and did
the south coast. He scored his guide-book like a chart of navigation,
and his marginal notes played leap-frog all over the show. When he got
to Plymouth he lost the precious book, and if it wasn't for railway
labels and hotel bills, he wouldn't have known where he'd been.
A commercial man, having totted up his accounts, seemed greatly
interested in Guy's remarks, and glided into the conversation. He told
us he hadn't had a holiday for thirty years, and never expected another
in this life. He became quite confidential, and gave us his views
about happiness in the world to come. He never intended going "on the
road" again for a living in the next world, he said, if there were any
telephones about. He didn't like telephones when the boss was always at
the other end.
We ran through the apple country, and the commercial man said these
orchards were simply nothing to be compared with those a few miles
away, where the real Devon cider was made. He told some funny
stories about cider and its makers--the way in which sweet cider was
discovered, and the hand that Old Nick had in the matter.
"It's a short story," said he, good-naturedly. "Old John Bowden had
the finest orchard land in South Devon, and it appears that in the
olden times the land was the property of Tavistock Abbey, and the good
Fathers used to come over every season to make cider and have a frolic.
Sometimes the good old cider, being no respecter of persons, got into
the good Fathers' heads. Now, you must know that the best of cider is
a trifle sharp to the palate--the natives call it 'rough'--and the
Fathers were in the habit of toning some rare good stuff, reserved for
high days and holidays, in empty wine-casks. One season, the wine-casks
falling short, the Abbot of Tavistock drew up a sort of prize
competition, like the magazines do now, offering something tasty to the
inventor of a process for making 'rough' cider sweet without the use of
wine, which, I suppose, worked out expensive, and, moreover, encouraged
more drinking than was allowed under the tippling act. I must now tell
you that, for a very long time, things hadn't gone on smoothly between
the monks of Tavistock Abbey and Old Nick, who was constantly prowling
about the premises, picking up little bits of information, and making
the good Fathers uncomfortable. Well, he chanced upon this prize
competition notice on an old door covered over with cast horse-shoes
and vermin nailed up for 'good luck' and to keep his satanic majesty
off the premises. However, there he was, and read the notice.
[Illustration: FATHER JOHN AND THE CIDER.]
"A very obliging little old man turned up at the orchards one season,
and offered his services, and was taken in to do odd jobs about the
pound-house, and as he wasn't particular about his bed, he was allowed
to curl himself up in one of the big empty cider-casks. In truth, after
the work was over for the day, the good Fathers had other fish to fry,
and thought no more about him; but the strange workman was most busy
when he was supposed to be sound asleep.
"Of all the Fathers of the Abbey, Brother John was the keenest on
winning the prize for turning 'rough' cider into sweet, and he spent
hours in the pound-house alone, spoiling good stuff, without getting
one foot forrarder. 'Dang my old buttons!' said he, after another
failure.
"It wasn't so much the language as the temper of Brother John which
attracted the notice of the little old man who slept in the cask,
and he whispered something which made the good brother turn pale and
tremble in his shoes. He was not above temptation, it is true, but
he was a brave man for all that, and dissimulated so well that the
stranger was so off his guard as to sleep in his cask and leave one
of his cloven feet sticking out of the bung-hole. Brother John bided
his time and covered the bung-hole, and then arranged for such a flow
of cider into the cask upon the sleeping stranger as to settle his
hash, unless it was the very old Nick himself. Old Nick it was, and
when he awoke to the situation he was so hot with passion that the
cider bubbled in the cask, and he disappeared, leaving the strongest
of strong smell of brimstone behind. Brother John kept the secret to
himself, not knowing what might come of it; but when he tasted the
cider his eyes sparkled, for it was as sweet as honey, and when sweet
cider was wanted at the Abbey, he used to pour it 'rough' upon the
fumes of burning sulphur, and, lo and behold! it became sweet. It was
Old Nick who gave away the secret to Brother John, who was smart enough
to learn it. A Devon man calls sweet cider 'matched,' on account of its
connection with old Brimstone."
"Did Brother John patent the process?" asked Guy.
"No, he didn't, though Old Nick tempted him; but Brother John was
too wide awake to have his fingers burnt by patent lawyers and their
agents."
"Is that story in print?" asked the Bookworm, preparing to make a note
for future reference.
"I should say not. It's just one of those trifles you pick up on the
road. Plenty about when Old Nick is concerned. They say his majesty
didn't cross the Tamar in olden days; or, if he did, then he hopped
back again in double-quick time. That may be, but he's a season
ticket-holder now, and has good lodgings, and I ought to know, for I do
business all through the country," said the man of samples, stepping
out of the carriage.
"A trifle rough on us lawyers," said Guy. "Poor beggar has suffered, I
suppose."
Across the bridge, and we are in the land of pasties and cream--the
land of a lost language, of legend and romance, where the old seems new
and the new seems old, and the breath of life everywhere.
Penzance.
[Illustration: PADDLING.]
[Illustration: ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT]