The proper thing to do when you awake at Penzance is to run down to
the sea and bathe. We were told all about it in the smoking-room. It
is a sort of ceremony with something belonging to it. When once you've
bathed in the sea you're free of the country, like the Israelites,
after swimming the Jordan. Everybody asks his neighbour, "Have you
bathed?" If you have, it's all right.
We missed the Bookworm soon after breakfast, but Guy said we would soon
find him if we drew the libraries. Guy supposed that reading was like
dram-drinking to a fellow who had got himself into the Bookworm's
condition, and it would be just as well to let him have a dose
occasionally. We decided to "do" Penzance on our own account.
There's nothing much to "do." All the streets run down to the sea, and
then run up again. It is a capital arrangement and saves one asking
questions. It is humiliating for a Londoner to be seen asking his way
about, and takes the fine bloom off his swagger not to be able to find
his way to the next street, in a town all the inhabitants of which
could be put into one corner of the Crystal Palace. Guy said he'd
rather walk miles than ask such a silly question.
Penzance had a reputation long before any modern rivals were heard of,
and was the Madeira of England before the Riviera made its _début_ as
a professional beauty in the sunny south. Professional beauties want
"touching up" sometimes, and Penzance has been doing a little in that
way lately, though without destroying the charm which draws admirers,
and keeps them. It is one of those towns in which you seem to be always
walking in the shadow of a long yesterday. Go into the market, and buy
a rib of beef, and you are brought face to face with an ancient cross
whose age no man can surely tell. You buy a fish, still panting, from
the creel of a wrinkled specimen of human antiquity which takes snuff,
and bargains in unfamiliar words. Shops with modern frontages are
filled with dark serpentine, which carries you back to geologic time;
and at the photographers, the last professional beauty on the stage is
surrounded by monuments in stone, weathered and hoary before the Druids
used them for mystic rites. And the names are strange. A sound of
bitter wailing is in Marazion, and Market Jew brings to mind the lost
ten tribes. You learn in time that Market Jew has nothing to do with
Jewry, nor Marazion with lamentation; but all this comes gradually, and
there is ever the sensation of having an old and vanished past always
with you. You may step from Alverton Street, Pall Mall and Piccadilly
rolled into one, with its motor-cars and bikes, knickers and chiffons,
into Market Jew, reminding you of antiquity and gabardines, or _vice
versâ_, just as you happen to be taking your walks abroad.
Penzance has one "lion"--Sir Humphry Davy. Sir Humphry and his little
lamp is a story with immortal youth, like that of Washington and
his little hatchet. Sir Humphry meets you at unexpected places and
times--there was something _à la_ Sir Humphry on the breakfast menu.
We heard about him soon after our arrival, from an American tourist of
independent views. He said that Sir Humphry would not be a boss man
now because he didn't know a good thing when he had it, and gave away
his invention in a spirit of benevolence, which was destructive of all
sound commercial principles. Then he figured out how many millions,
in dollars, Sir Humphry might have made, if only he had patented his
little lamp and run the show himself.
Sir Humphry is a sort of patron saint, and some people feel all the
better for looking at his statue in marble outside the Market House.
He was born here, but his bones rest in peace at Geneva. They may
be brought over at the centenary of his death, and canonized by the
miners, whose saint he is, and God reward him for placing science at
the service of humanity.
We found ourselves in the Morrab Gardens; the Public Library is there,
and Guy said we might surprise the Bookworm if he came out to breathe.
We didn't see him, but we saw the gardens--a little paradise with
exotic blooms, and fountains playing, and the air laden with perfume.
We sat down, but didn't feel like talking--a delicious, do-nothing sort
of feeling was over us. We didn't know then what it was, but found that
it was the climate--the restful, seductive climate.
A couple of fishwomen with empty baskets passed us, and they talked
loud enough, but it might have been Arabic for all we knew. The letters
of the alphabet seemed to be waltzing with the s's and z'z to the old
women's accompaniment, and words reached us from a distance like the
hum of bees. We were inclined to sleep, so moved on; but the feeling
while it lasted was delicious. It may be only coincidence, but the
Bookworm discovered that Morrab is a Semitic word, and means "the place
of the setting sun." The Morrab Gardens face the west; and to sit in a
library in a miniature garden of Eden with an Arabic name is, in his
opinion, the height of human enjoyment. The natives think a lot of the
garden.
Serpentine and saints are common--the former is profitable; but there
was an over-production of the latter a long time ago, and the market is
still inactive. Some parishes had more than one saint, and some saints
had more than one _alias_, to the great confusion of all saint lovers.
The memory of saints, however, will last as long as the Mount stands.
The Mount, dedicated to St. Michael, makes one curious about the early
history of the good people who came here long ago, when the sea was
salt enough to float millstones. The cheapest way of coming across in
those days from the "distressful country," was to sit on a millstone
and wait for a fair breeze. The saints were quite ready to grind any
other man's corn as soon as they landed, and the millstones were
convenient for that purpose. The rights of aliens to eat up natives
were articles of belief and practice.
Penzance appeared on the saints' charts as the "Holy Headland," which
was a mark to steer by; but St. Michael, it appears, drifted out of his
course, and landed at the Mount, where the giant lived, and thereby
hangs a tale.
SAINT MICHAEL AND THE CONGER.
There are more St. Michaels than one, but the hero of this story landed
at the Mount in a fog. The Mount was then the marine residence of
an ancient giant, well known as keeping a sharp look-out for saints
through a telescope, which he stole from an unfortunate Phoenician
ship laden with tin and oysters. The giant had an evil reputation, but
did nothing by halves. He was asleep when St. Michael landed; and when
he slept, he snored, and when he snored, the Mount shook.
The poor saint was in a terrible funk, wandering about for days,
reading the notices which the giant posted up warning saints not to
land, unless they wished to be cooked in oil, after the manner of
sardines. There was nothing to be picked up just then but seaweed, and
the dry bones which the giant threw away--and there wasn't enough on
the bones to support a saint after he had done with them. St. Michael
had got rid of the very last drop of the best LL. whisky, and sat on
the empty keg, and dreamed of his own peat fire at Ballyknock, and the
little shebeen where a drop was to be had for the asking. It was fear
of the fierce giant above which alone kept him from singing the poem
which he had composed about "Home, sweet home."
The saint was very sad, and had almost given up hope, when something in
the sea attracted his attention, and he saw a great conger rise, tail
first, and stretch itself, until the tail topped the rock. Its head
remained in the sea. The giant was snoring, and the Mount shook. St.
Michael was the gold medallist of his college, and could put two and
two together with the help of his fingers. "A sign," said he, girding
on his sword, and putting on his best pair of spurs. The conger was to
be for him a Jacob's ladder.
So he dug his spurs well into the fish's side, and climbed and
climbed until he reached the top, and, with one mighty stroke, cut
off the giant's head. There wasn't much personal estate--only the
telescope--and the saint took that, but forgot to send a "return" to
Somerset House, and pay death duties. The conger wagged his tail, by
way of saying he was tired and wanted to be off, so the saint slipped
down quite easily--so easily that he found the earth hard when he
touched bottom. Those who have eyes to see may see the mark to this day.
[Illustration: ST. MICHAEL AND THE CONGER.]
Then the conger disappeared in the sea, but returned again, this time
head first, and licked the saint's hand, who blessed it. Now the
conger is very fine and large, and abundant in its season, and the
white scars down its sides are the marks of the saint's spurs, which
tell the story of the climb. There are some who say it was a bean-stalk
which grew in the night for the saint to climb, and those who believe
it, may.
The giant's blood flowed over the cliff, and a church sprung up, which
St. Michael dedicated to himself, and then went away, for the Mount was
not inhabited in those days.[A]
[A] Story-books, please copy. No rights reserved.
This was the beginning of the war between the saints and giants, which
continued for centuries, and might have lasted until now, only the
saints came out on top.
Saint Michael crops up in various places, and, for convenience, I may
add here what is known of him. He became the patron saint of the county
after meeting with the arch-enemy at Helston. There was no time to
advise the newspapers, and get special correspondents on the spot, but
it was reported that the battle was tough and long. The enemy carried a
red-hot boulder under his arm, and hurled it at the saint; but he was
out of practice, and the ball went wide. Then the saint got in with his
trusty blackthorn, and basted the enemy so well that he couldn't fly
away fast enough for comfort.
N.B.--The boulder was picked up when cool, and is still on view at the
Angel Hotel.
Saint Michael, having now done enough for mere reputation, grew
ambitious, and turned author, and that finished him. He wrote "The
Story of my Life," but the publishers returned the manuscript with
compliments; and when he found he had to pay double postage on the
unstamped parcels, his great heart broke.
The Bookworm got back in time for dinner. He had been to all the
libraries, and made friends of all the curators, and was going to have
a good time.
We met the American gentleman in the smoking-room, and he gave us more
opinions. He said this part of the world was a durned sight too slow
for the twentieth century. It was, say, two hundred years behind the
age. He expected that an American citizen would come across one day,
and just show the people what to do, and how to do it. This Cornwall
was a big show for the man who knew how to handle it. He took a special
interest in the matter, because of the Gulf Stream, and he wasn't sure
whether or no this part of the old country came within the Monroe
doctrine. If it's England where the British flag waves, then isn't
it America where American water runs? And if the Gulf Stream wasn't
America, what was? He told us frankly that he, John B. Bellamy, Kansas
City, Mo., U.S.A., had ideas.
[Illustration: KEIGWIN ARMS, MOUSEHOLE.]