Cornish humour has its practical side with a tang. "To curing your old
cow till she died," is native. A candidate for Parliamentary honours
once sent the freemen of the borough a silver teapot, as a prize to be
sailed for at the forthcoming regatta. The freemen returned it with
the remark that "the taypot do not draw well enuf." The teapot came
back again filled with golden guineas, which so improved its "drawing"
powers that the freemen kept it. A Cornishman likes a story about some
one who comes out on top by a trick; or one which hides his meaning by
a play of words, until the situation is revealed in a flash. We picked
up a few specimens.
AS DEEP AS OLD HUGH.
Two brothers went a-fishing, and one was a scholar, with a reputation
beyond his attainments, which, in fact, were limited to reading and
writing, after a fashion, and reckoning with his head. The other was
a man of simple and trustful nature, and was often puzzled, but let
things go without inquiring deeply into them. The scholar was called
Hugh, and as he managed to come out on top on most occasions, he was
considered both cunning and wise, and people encouraged their children
to cram themselves with book-learning in order to become "as deep as
old Hugh;" and "deep as old Hugh" became a proverb which he locally
shared with old Nick, who, up to this time, had the monopoly. The
simple brother was Dick. Hugh and Dick were partners in a small boat
and nets, and earned a poor living by their trammels, and drag-nets,
and crab-pots. What they caught they equally divided, but Hugh always
had the best half, which puzzled Dick; but scratch his head as he
might, he could never get to the bottom of the mystery, everything
being so fair and aboveboard, and done in the light of day. One day
they were out and caught six mackerel and six scads. Now, scads are
of small value, and yet Dick got them all, and Hugh all the mackerel.
Hugh did the sharing: "Here's a mackerel for me, and a scad for you,"
said he, making a division; "and a scad for you, and a mackerel for me;
and a mackerel for me and a scad for you," and so on, until _all_ the
scads fell to Dick, and _all_ the mackerel to himself. Hugh's system
was perfect, and, if it could be adapted, might be depended on to break
the bank of Monte Carlo every night. "How is it that I've got all the
scads?" asked Dick. "It's all right," replied Hugh, pleasantly. "And if
you don't think so, I'll do it over again--here's a mackerel for me and
a scad for you, and a scad for you and a mackerel for me," and so on to
the end, until Dick got _all_ the scads as before.
[Illustration: MAKING CRAB POTS.]
"He would have settled the fiscal question in no time," said Guy. "'A
mackerel for me and a scad for you'--a fair motto for protectionists."
The game was played in the Far East with the Mikado, but the Czar got
the scads. It's safest played with the blind.
THE MAN WHO SLEPT WITH A BADGER.
Guy wanted something done to a shoe, and walked into a room where a
man was sitting, waxing a long thread, and whistling to the thrushes
and blackbirds hung around in cages. The fellow was most obliging,
Guy told us, and put aside the work he was doing, and asked several
questions about himself--where he came from; where he was going; how
long he intended to stay; and whether his father and mother were
living? Then the cobbler told him about himself, and how many of the
Tremains--he being called Reuben Tremain--lay in the parish churchyard.
All this time Guy's shoe rested on his apron. Just a few stitches
were all that was wanted, and Mr. Tremain got in one when he started
talking of London, what a "braave plaace" it must be, and what a "pure
few" people it contained, all being true that he had heard. Guy forgot
about his shoe, and gave an entertaining sketch of a London crowd
in Fleet Street on Lord Mayor's Day, and the Lord Mayor's show was
described in his best style. And then the Crystal Palace on a fête
day, and on a Handel Festival day, and the Houses of Parliament, and
Madame Tussaud's! Guy made the Arabian Nights' Entertainments look
small, and he began to fear that Reuben Tremain would be paralyzed with
admiration, and unable to put in another stitch. All the morning was
gone, and Guy still sat on a low three-legged stool, with one shoe off,
as happy as any Lord Chancellor on the Woolsack. He really was enjoying
himself with the simple Reuben.
"Ded 'ee ever hear tell ov a man up to Lunnon who slept with a
badger?" asked the cobbler, at length piercing the shoe with his awl
for another stitch.
"A real, live badger?"
"Ess, sure, live enough."
"Never," said Guy, turning up his nose.
"Why, a badger----" And he put his thumb and finger to his nostrils,
with a sign which meant more than words.
"I knaw a man," said the cobbler, confidentially, "who have slept with
a badger for ten year, come next Michaelmas Fair goose day. And he got
so accustomed to it that he cudn't sleep apart. Would 'ee like to see
the badger?"
"Very much."
"And the man?"
"Oh, certainly. One of Nature's freaks."
"Two ov em!" said Reuben, solemnly, putting in the last stitch, and
handing the shoe to Guy.
"You'd like to see what's to be seen, s'poase?"
The cobbler whistled shrilly whilst untying his apron, and a woman with
dark hazel eyes, and a face aquiline and refined, appeared. Guy made
his best bow.
"The gentleman do want to see the badger that the man slept with," said
Reuben, slowly.
"And the man, I should like to see the man who had such extraordinary
taste," added Guy, saying something just to enable him to look at the
woman without being rude.
The woman reddened, and her eyes sparkled.
"Tell un, my dear, what name you owned to avoor you was married," said
the cobbler.
"Badger; and too good for you," replied the lady.
"That's the badger, and this is the man," said the cobbler, with a
smile.
Guy was very cross when he told the story. Only to think that he had
painted London town and London wit in such colours; and then to be
dropped on by a simple cobbler before a handsome woman! But he wasn't
cross long, and he went out and bought a pretty chain, and gave it to
the cobbler to lead his "badger" with. So Guy and the cobbler cried
quits.
THE PARSON TRUMPS.
To be able to do a "clane off trick" is to be the hero in a parish
for generations, and Parson Arscott was quoted at all the fairs as
a masterpiece for doing the thing clane off at a horse deal. The
story goes that the reverend gentleman attended Summercourt Fair,
which is famed throughout the land. If you can't get what you want at
Summercourt Fair, you must be hard to please, for the lame and the
blind are there, the young and the aged, the sound and unsound, and
you buy on your own judgment and without warranty. Parson Arscott knew
a good horse when he saw it, and went early and looked about him. In
the thick of the fair the parson went and examined the horses' tails,
and so attracted attention to himself, for every one knows that to tell
a horse's age you must open its mouth, and look at its teeth. And the
curious part of the business was that the parson knew as much about
the animal he was handling by lifting its tail as other people did by
opening its mouth. At length, parson came to a nice little cob that
suited him, and the deal began. It was a weary deal, but parson was
firm. "I've looked at his tail, and I know he's rising five," said he;
and he was right,--whatever the parson said about the cob was right,
and yet he never once looked at its mouth. There was a trifle of five
pounds between them when the shades of evening began to fall, and no
hope of any advance on the part of the parson. At last the dealer
said, "Tell me how you know a horse's age by his tail, and you shall
have the cob." The parson counted down the guineas, and whispered, "I
looked into his mouth beforehand." "Parson Arscott's deal" makes a
horse-dealer shiver to this day.
THE PARSON EUCHRED.
But sharp as the parson was at the fair, he was no match for a woman
on her own ground. Parson was round collecting his tithes, and came
to a farm whereon the farmer's wife presented her husband with a tenth
child, and an old sow littered ten years.
"Passun es out in the town plaace, and es coom vur th' tithe pig. Which
shall us giv'm?" asked the farmer of his better half, sitting in the
kitchen suckling her baby.
"Tithe pig, es et? What next, I wonder? I'll tithe pig'n," says Mrs.
Farmer, rising and taking the infant with her.
The parson was very polite, of course, to Mrs. Farmer and number ten,
and asked about the christening.
"That's vur you to zay, passun," says the lady, holding out number ten.
"He do belong to you."
The parson flushed. This was not in his line.
"Ess sure 'e do--tes the tithing cheeld, and now you take un."
Farmer made his appearance with the weakliest of the ten vears
squealing in his arms, and the parson made towards him, but the woman
was equal to the occasion and stood between them, shouting, "No cheeld,
no vear," and that time she had her way, and saved the little pig.
So there arose a saying in the parish that a parson might cheat the
devil, but a woman could cheat a parson.
"Every one to his trade," said Guy.
* * * * *
To be "sure for sartin" is an averment of absolute knowledge, but a
Cornishman is not often willing to speak to anything in so pronounced
a fashion. To be "sure as can be" admits of a loophole and many
explanations in the event of error. Something non-committal in the
shape of speech suits him best. Things of no consequence become
mysterious when screened with secrecy. An ordinary conversation is like
this--
"Where are you going?"
"Down along."
"Where to?"
"Past the corner."
"How far?"
"A pure bit."
"Will you be long?"
"Maybe."
"Say an hour?"
"If you like."
"Or two?"
"Shudn't wonder."
And so on, and so on, until the questioner is tired of asking further
questions. The people don't notice anything peculiar about this want of
directness in reply to the simplest questions. To tell the truth, and
yet to mislead, is looked on as an accomplishment which may be turned
to profit without scandal, as by the man who sold a blind horse as free
from vice. "To be blind is a misfortune and not a vice," replied the
seller, when charged with deceit.
Cornish diamonds are hard to beat on a deal. We chanced upon a couple
one market day chaffering about a pig in a tap-room.
"Twenty score weight, and fippence a pound."
"Fourpence ha'penny, and I'll take the head and oal ov'm."
"An' barley eighteen shillin' a bushel! I'll see to it."
One hour already by the clock had been consumed by the little farmer
who had a pig to sell, and the little pork-butcher who wanted to buy
one, and there was this ha'penny between them. Friendly customers
chaffed a bit and threw in a word between drinks, and it seemed that
the jobber who could keep a stiff upper lip and his temper longest
would come out on top. The unfortunate pig was haggled over with and
without the hams, with and without the bacon fat, with one ham only,
with its head, without its head, with only half its head, and every
cunning offer of the little pork-butcher was resisted with a fineness
of perception of self-interest that would have done credit to the peace
plenipotentiaries at Portsmouth.
Another hour passed, and the butcher advanced one farthing--fourpence
three-farthings, but without the head, and then there was the "luck
penny." At last the whole carcase was sold, head and all, at fourpence
three-farthings, and the "luck penny" was "spent out." It was a hard
deal, and neither seemed too well pleased. Only the customers all said
it was a fair bargain, and seemed pleased when the men shook hands over
it.
[Illustration: A TAIL-PIECE.]
[Illustration: AN ALLEY.]