A Cornish Sunday to a man of cities is a weariness to the flesh, and a
temptation to pray for Monday to come quickly; but for the natives it
is a blessed day--a day of feathers and soft down, a day for chewing
the cud and being lazy without reproach. The fishermen rarely fish on
Saturdays because the sacred idleness of the Sunday may be broken by
the salesmen and railway porters--so the day of rest is made to stretch
over as much of two days as is worth the having. Farmers are not so
well off as fishers, but do what they can in the resting line, and that
is something. When we walked through any of the villages on a Sunday
we found the people mostly looking over their garden gates, casting
glances "up-along," or "down-along," or "athwart," just to see what was
going on, and who was moving. They don't like cycles or cyclists on
Sundays, and when one comes along all the men in their shirt-sleeves,
and all the women helping them to do nothing, squirm as though wounded
in a tender place. Every time it is the same--the same inward shrinking
from activity on a day of rest. Those who do nothing all the week
feel just the same, and lie about, and squat about, indoors, when not
outside resting their ample chins upon ample arms upon gates and walls,
staring "up-along," and "down-along," and "athwart," watching one
another.
Whatever can sleep, sleeps, and the people don't seem properly awake
until after tea, when the women make ready for chapel, and the men go
after them. The men wouldn't stir but for the women, and the women make
a bee-line for chapel. Sunday is given up to preaching and preachers.
If you see a man driving on a Sunday, you may put him down for a
"local" brother, who works at his trade all the week and is preacher
on Sundays. You may know him by a certain smile of goodness that
plays around his mouth, for he is going to have a good time. The lay
preacher is a by-product of Methodism, and a valuable one in large and
scattered circuits too poor for anything but a little chapel of four
walls and a brush of whitewash. The Methodist clergy live in the towns
and work around the circuit, so the people in the villages see their
minister sometimes. The ordained minister is a "rounder," because of
his travelling round. The lay, or "local," brothers come in and fill up
gaps, and they travel from place to place according to a "plan"--a sort
of calendar and time-table combined. It is a system, and it works, and
congregations are not wearied with the same face and voice two Sundays
in succession. It is good for the lay brother, who can run one sermon
for three months without much fear of being bowled out.
The lay preacher is almost a professional once a week, and goes so far
as to wear a clerical bowler, but the white necktie is reserved, as a
rule, for his betters. There is no written law upon the subject, but it
is understood that the white necktie is for the professional "rounder."
The lay brother has privileges, and may drive proudly through the land
of saints on Sundays and be welcomed, though no one else may let or
hire a trap for love or money. The lay brother may not ride a bicycle,
which is a pity, looked at from the side of horseflesh.
"I'll drive 'ee to plaize 'ee, but I'd rather not," said a
good-tempered landlord, one Sunday, when we wished to pay respects to
an ancient monument.
"Why would you rather not?"
"People talk so, and say nasty things to the children."
"But some one has just driven past, and every one smiled and
how-de-doo'd him."
"That's oal right. He's goin' to praich."
"But the pony looked tired."
"I shud zay so. Six mile and stiffish hills, and not wance ded ee git
out ov th' trap."
"Do you mean that a preacher of the Gospel over-drives his horse?"
"I mane that ef a hill is as stiff as a house a praicher won't never
walk on a Zunday--not wan inch of th' way."
Now the vent-peg was out, our host's eloquence ran freely, and much
he said of the over-driving and under-feeding of hired horses by lay
preachers on Sundays, and of the reluctance which people had to take
on the "horse hire" contracts for the Sunday work, because the men
who walked the hills fast enough in their weekday clothes would not
walk an inch in their Sunday clothes when "planned" for preaching. A
false standard of dignity this, which made men cruel. And then the
under-feeding? There is no excuse for this. The lay brother is served
with all the luxuries of the season at the tables of the brethren
on whom he is billeted as a soldier of the cross, and should not
forget the hard-working little animal which has dragged him the whole
distance, and will have to drag him back again, and the worse the
weather the quicker the pace.
Lay preaching is the homely fare of Sunday congregations, who thrive
on it because it suits them and sticks in their memories. The "higher
criticism" is not wanted by them. Here are a few specimens, picked up
in various places.
"You'll never want friends whilst you've God and your victuals."
"Some people's religion is like badly baked dough--put in with the
bread and took out with the cakes."
"What the Bible says is true, as true as I've a-got specketty stockings
on."
"I do pity the poor ould devil, he lost such a good plaace oal dru
catching a cold en es faith. Ess, my dears, he was like some folks
along weth we, who get boilin' hot when they'm convarted, and then
catch chill dru sittin' en a draught."
"There was wance a great man who gave a great supper to a braave lot
of guests. And ded'm come? Not for sure, but they all sent excuses.
Wan said, 'I've boughten a piece of land, an' must go an' try et;' an'
another said, 'I've boughten vive yoke of oxen, an' must try they;' an'
another said, 'I've married a wife, an' must stap to home to try she.'"
"Cast your bread upon the waters, and doan't 'ee luk fust to see
whichee way th' wind es blawing. Aw, my dears, there's many a man
wean't trust the Loard weth a penny loaf, and so they lose the
blessing, like ould Timothy Tack, who spent sixpence to find thrupence."
"Love your neighbour, that is a commandment; but ef you b'lieve in him
he's sure to do 'ee!"
"Some people say, 'You can't believe a thing unless you can see and
feel it;' but I say you can. Look 'ee now. Here's my hand--fowr fingers
an' a thum'. Well, that's fact, edn't et? Now then" (hiding his hand
from view), "my hand has got fowr fingers an' a thum', but you can't
see'm. Well, that's b'leef. Never say, then, you can't b'lieve what you
can't see and feel."
"When I was a boy, a man used to come round crying 'Bellows to mend,'
and the schoolmaster our way put up a sign, 'Manners to mend.' Now, I
think we might put up that sign in chapels where people come on Sundays
trapesing in as though they were going by train, and quattin' down, and
spittin' on th' floor, for oal th' world 'twas a tiddly-wink. Them's
manners to mend, sure 'nuff, an' would be th' better for mendin', like
Jakey Luney's britches, ragged behind."
Sometimes the local brother's homily is very pointed, but no offence
is taken. The preacher is one of themselves, and they will take a lot
from him in good part. If a stranger were to take the same liberty
there would be trouble. Here is a specimen from an address spoken from
the pulpit in the free-and-easy manner of every-day conversation.
"You wean't get into heaven just because you've a pious mother or a
pious father. Not for sure. Now, I'll tell 'ee a story about a man
who deceived moast everybody when he was in the flesh, and he liked
chateing so much that he al'ys prayed loudest after he'd tooked in
somebody--an' there's more like'n down along weth we now. We'll just
give him a name, an' call him Jim Tresidder. He was on the 'plan,' like
me, and people said 'twas good to hear him hold forth, and I s'poase
'twas. Jim put a bold face upon it when he marched up to the golden
gate, and rapped weth his knuckles upon the little shutter, till Peter
looked out. 'Who ar'ee?' asks Peter. 'Doan't 'ee knaw me? Why, I'm Jim
Tresidder.' Then he tunied up a bit, and began to sing, 'Heaven is my
home.' Now, Peter must have liked the look of Jim--he had sich a pious
look weth un, for he stretched forth his hand for the key hanging
over his head to open the gate weth. 'I'm oal right now,' thinks Jim,
singing louder and louder. 'Avoor I let 'ee in,' says Peter, 'I'll have
a look at the book,' and he turned over the leaves till he came to
the T's. 'You'm Jim Tresidder of Trevalsa,' ses he. 'Ess,' says Jim.
'Then I'm sorry for 'ee,' says Peter, hanging up the key wance more.
Then he showed Jim the book through the peep-hole, and when he seed
oal the people he'd chated, and the evil he had caused, his heart sank
into his shoes. 'I'll live in a dark corner, anywhere, if you'll only
let me in. My poor mother is waiting for me. She was called Jane, an'
was pious--now do 'ee lev me in, there's a dear man,' ses he, the great
tears rolling down his chacks. 'Your mother is here weth the shining
ones,' says Peter, 'but you caan't come in because of she, no, f'y, you
caan't, for up here every fish do hang by his own gills. And you will
hang too--on the outside.'"
The county is honeycombed with dissent, and the fat of the land is
labelled "Wesleyan." The beneficed clergy are beautifully housed, with
gardens and stables, and all the appointments of gentlemen; but the
"livings" are not fat. Some country clergy take "paying guests," and
some let their houses in the summer. The orthodox Wesleyan ministers
are fairly well off, and live rent free; and the others live as best
they can, and get commissions on the sale of books and periodicals. One
of the brethren left a record of thirty thousand teeth drawn during
his professional career. As a rule, they "draw" well, and will draw
coin from the most unlikely places. A child having swallowed a piece of
silver, the doctor, in despair, sent for the minister, saying the case
was hopeless if he failed to get it. The coin was recovered.[D]
There is a good deal of "religion" to be met with, and not so much need
for Salvation Army music as in some places. There are certain times
when people want to feel good, but they don't all feel the same way at
the same time, which saves monotony. They say that at St. Agnes the
people start being good when the cold weather sets in, and the feeling
lasts until potato-planting time, and then, somehow, the good feeling
sloughs off. I don't know what becomes of it, only it is put on one
side for the next season, just like a boy puts on one side his bag of
marbles and brings out tops. It's the same boy, but a new game. In
the summer it's a struggle to be good anywhere, there's so many fairs
and feasts and frolics, and the young men and maidens are so fond of
courting on the cliffs and downs. It's the custom of the country and
suits well enough, so strangers may turn their heads on one side--it's
none of their business. In the autumn the good feeling comes again and
extends along the coast, especially when the fishing is "slight." The
young men get tired of the maidens about this time, and want to be
good for evermore, and the want grows with the badness of the season.
One sign of goodness in the country is thrift. The man who neither
chews, nor smokes, nor drinks beer, and who never spends a copper
without looking on both sides of it, is sure to be good.
[D] An ex-President of the Wesleyan Conference told this story.
You always know when the good season is coming on by the people
singing. They are pretty good, in spots, at singing, but the "gift," as
they call it, is not universal. A gift is supposed to run in families,
and a man with the voice of a crow will insist on singing because his
great-grandfather once played the double bass in a church choir. There
is a musical zone in the West, and the young women who work in the open
air have very sweet voices. These are the "bal" maidens, and work on
the dressing-floors of the mines. When the time comes round for them
to feel good they "tuney up" a bit, and take the young men who work
underground along with them to the love-feasts and prayer-meetings in
the little Bethels scattered all about the moors.
They call themselves "Weslums" when they are not something ending in
"ists" or "ite," and are bursting with goodness every Whit-Monday, just
as sure as the day comes round. Why Whit-Monday more than any other day
in the year would puzzle any one who did not know that on a certain day
the cuckoo must sing. It's a sort of something which makes the bird
sing, and it's a sort of something which makes the "Weslums" feel good
on Whit-Monday, and draws them with invisible bands towards Gwennap
Pit. Whit-Monday is the anniversary of an occasion when John Wesley,
_the_ John Wesley, _our_ John Wesley preached in the pit--- not the pit
as it is, but the pit as it was.
John Wesley wouldn't know the pit, or the people who flock there now
on Whit-Mondays. The old pit was an abandoned mine of no particular
shape, but inclined to be round, like a bowl warped in the firing.
Then the miners came with pickaxe and shovel, and cut terraces against
the land, and made the ring quite round, with its terraces rising one
above another, until it became a sort of county monument to which the
"Weslums" are drawn in their tens of thousands as to a shrine. John
Wesley is a "Saint" in Cornwall, and all those who went before him
have to take back seats; and Whit-Monday, at the Pit, is now a sort of
religious carnival, with picnic combined, at which Saint John would
have shied when in the flesh, like good St. Anthony at a Pleasant
Sunday Afternoon, with fiddles and a ballet. When Wesley first came
among the people they had an unpleasant trick of throwing stones and
turves at him, and hustling him out of one parish into another, and
then out upon the downs, where he might live upon frosty turnips
when there were no blackberries. "Starring" in the country was not
pleasant at times; and cold, wet, and starving, the little-great man
often had the appearance of a scarecrow riding upon a tough little
nag as starved as himself. But he caught on, and emptied the cock-pit
and wrestling ring, and provided entertainments wherein were mighty
wrestlings with the invisible for immortal stakes. So he reached the
natural cravings of a dramatic people for excitement and scenic change,
and made them actors, with the blue heavens above, the earth trembling,
and the hill-sides lined with living faces, wet and radiant. Greater
than he have tramped the county since, but conditions have altered,
and only _one_ Wesley is possible. And that is why people are drawn
as to a shrine to Gwennap Pit, and the feeling comes upon them every
Whit-Monday that they must go there, for there is a troubling of the
waters then, and they may be healed. The old spirit of votive offerings
survives in the land of saints and holy wells.
The Cornish must have been a very well-meaning folk at one time,
estimated by the number of churches which they built. They built little
else, perhaps, but they did build good and substantial churches,
mostly with square towers and four pinnacles, to be seen of men far
and near. In the parish of Paul, near Penzance, the towers of fifteen
parish churches may be counted from one spot, and, though not so
thick everywhere, the minds of the people centred around the churches
for more reasons than one. In the old days, when roads were few and
detestably bad, people reckoned church towers as guides, and calculated
distances from church tower to church tower. Every man who ventured
far from home knew the church towers by sight and the bells by sound;
they were marks at sea as well, and mariners knew them and their bells
as well as now they know bell-buoys and lighthouses upon the charts.
A hamlet with a church became a "town," so a man says he's going to
Church-town, and still measures the distance between places by saying
it is so far from one church tower to the other.
Then came the little chapel, four-square and whitewashed, with plain
glass windows, winking and blinking in the daytime, but a place of joy.
Some people measure distances as from Bethel to Zion, and then no other
question is needed on the point of worship. It's all there, when the
chapel comes before the church. The day of bitterness is passing, but
the preference comes out accidentally.
Now there is a third building seen from far and seen everywhere, and
that is the school which has been raised by the people with more
hardship and self-denial than in the rest of the kingdom, because of
the smallness of means, which often makes the dividing line with
downright poverty very fine indeed. Only the thrift of the people
would have enabled them to uprear schools finer in every respect than
chapels, and first and foremost amongst the buildings of the county.
The schools rank next the churches, and are usually built where they
may be seen.
The parsons had to fight tooth and nail for their tithes of cows
and calves and pigs and other things, and had to look sharp that
butter and cheese were not palmed off on them as of like value. The
Vicar of Zennor made a note in the parish register that three of his
tithe-paying parishioners had planted butter and cheese in the chancel
of the church, where he let it stay until it became too ripe for
endurance, and then he ordered the churchwardens to remove it, which
they did; and the three smart farmers lost their produce, and the vicar
got his tithe of living animals, after all. A vicar wanted knowledge
not included in university curricula to make the two ends meet in a
Cornish parish in the good old times. They have to struggle now to hold
their own and make a bit, which some say they are doing, and some shake
their heads, so one may think what he likes.
[Illustration: OLD COINAGE STREET, PENZANCE.]