Three occupations are followed--farming, mining, and fishing, but the
Cornish are a handy race, and it is not an uncommon thing for a man to
cultivate a farm, work in a mine, and fish in the sea. A "wheelbarrow
farm" is a small holding which a man may get along with, with the
assistance of a wheelbarrow, and is common enough in the mining
districts. When a mine is near the sea, the wheelbarrow farmer has
a boat, and puts in time fishing when not underground. There are no
factories, as understood elsewhere, and if you see smoke afar off, it's
just some farmer burning weeds, or a railway engine puffing along.
There's never smoke enough in any one place to soil a butterfly's wing,
and some medical men have already made note of the fact.
In _the_ mining district people talk tin and copper, and dream about
little else, though it's tin for choice. Redruth is the reputed
headquarters of the tin worship. When we reached the town, everybody
seemed to be in the street, talking at once. We thought some great
calamity had happened, but found out that it was only the usual when
men came in from Camborne, and round about. There is an inner temple,
called an Exchange, but most of the exchanging seems to be done in the
street. Men talk together, and then out come little note-books. It
looks like street-betting, but the policeman takes no notice, so, of
course, it's something else. Millions sterling have changed hands in
this way, and in this street, but we were told that times were dull
now. People were lively enough, and whether they win or lose, they go
on talking and dreaming of tin.
It has been a wonderful land, this, and the stories told of fortunes
made in tin and copper give fairy tales a back seat; but then, for
every fortune made, a fortune is lost; and the way to get ten shillings
worth of tin is to melt twenty shillings worth of gold, we were told.
Of course, there's the other side, but we hadn't time to go into it--it
was too much like fiscal politics.
The people about here are prosperous to look at, but we were told
that they were ruined regularly once a week or fortnight, as the case
may be. Strangers may make mistakes when they see ruined people for
the first time, but they get to know that when a tin man looks most
prosperous, he's most ruined. A copper man may be afflicted in the same
way, but tin was uppermost when we were in the place.
The great men in these parts are captains--mine captains. A Newmarket
horse-trainer and jockey combined is not more looked up to on the heath
than a mine captain here. He is the man who knows, and can put a friend
on to a good thing; people always think a mine captain has a good thing
up his sleeve, and you must be civil to him, to make him shake it out.
They are modest men, however, and live in small houses to check any
tendency to pride, and on Sundays Cap'n Jack and Cap'n Jose, and the
best samples, go preaching. The kingdom of heaven is very much like a
mine to a miner, and if she "cuts rich" he wants to be there.
A mine is "she," and has many wooers when rich, or reputed to have
great expectations. Mines in these parts are also feminine in the
coquettish way in which they show just sufficient of their attractions
at one time to lure men on and on, and then--nothing! The caprices of
a season's beauty are not greater than those of a mine, nor is the
condition of a Derby favourite more closely watched and canvassed. A
mine may look well, or be in a bad way, and all the men crowd around
Wheal This and Wheal That as though her breath were perfumed, and then
turn their backs upon her when old age and wrinkles come, and her "eyes
are picked out," and she's neglected, and left to grow dropsical, and
pass from memory. Sometimes a pet Wheal over-runs the constable, and
ruins all her lovers, and then no secret is made of her wicked little
ways; but no professional beauty is more run after and talked about
when she's in her prime.
Guy was relieved to find that the Gulf Stream was not held responsible
for tin. We had heard so much of the Gulf Stream, how it made the
'taties grow, and the flowers bloom, and the air warm, and the wind
cool, and the skies blue, and the rain wet; but no one here said it had
anything to do with the making of tin. You may stream for tin, but that
is only one way of getting it; and the Gulf Stream doesn't come in, and
there are tin crystals in streams, but this is a detail known mostly to
natives.
Miners call themselves "Cousin Jacks," and a Cornish miner in any
part of the universe answers to "Cousin Jack." The Bookworm tried
to find the origin of the name from a man "tending the engine" at a
mine, who replied, "S'poase Adam gave it out when he named t'other
animals." This was a good beginning. The men change their clothes in
the engineroom; they call it "shifting," and a shift is worth the
trouble, for a miner coming up from the bowels of the earth with a
bit of tallow candle in his cap looks a clay-gnome of bad character,
and gentle manners only increase prejudice, for why should such a
forbidding-looking animal be gentle?
He was not in the least surprised to see us, but when he had shifted,
we were surprised to see him. He was no longer gnome, but man, and
good at that. Was there anything we would like to see or hear about?
He was entirely at our disposal. He showed us crystals of pure tin,
colourless, and flashing like diamonds. He supposed that tin might be
manufactured the same as diamonds, but wasn't sure, and thought that
Nature must have taken a lot of trouble when making tin. Would not be
surprised if the pressure of the two seas had much to do with it. It
was very singular that Cornwall was the richest spot in the universe
in tin stone. There was plenty of tin elsewhere, but not Cornish tin,
oh, dear, no! Tin was known in the days of Moses, and where could it
have come from but here? As a commercial commodity, tin certainly
first came from Cornwall, and so, first of all, brought Britain under
the influence of the older civilizations. Cæsar no more discovered
Britain than Columbus America, and Cornish miners were gentlemen in
manners, and hospitable in the days of Diodorus Siculus, who attributed
their advance in civilization to their frequent intercourse with Greeks
and Phoenicians. It was on record that a Phoenician merchant,
finding that he was followed, ran his ship ashore rather than let
another into the secret of getting tin. Mr. Chamberlain could have done
no better, could he?
[Illustration: THE CHAPEL ROCK, BUDE.]
Mining was a science now, more or less exact, and very exacting. We
were in the centre of a great school of mines, and students came here
from all parts to learn their business and get diplomas. He told
us something of superstitions common to miners. Science explains
everything, of course; but can't get rid of old beliefs in a hurry.
A mine's reputation was sometimes her weak point, just like a fine
lady's, and when it was blown upon, then, good-day and good-bye! Get a
chat, when you can, with an underground mine captain.
South Africa is a sort of outlying farm for the mining division, and
when things are brisk every mail brings twenty or thirty thousand
pounds sterling for wives and families and the old folks at home. Every
market night is an object-lesson in political economy. When the Boer
War was on, most of the shops were in mourning, and people went about
with hunger in their eyes. Cousin Jack goes abroad to make money, and
what he saves he sends home. On his return his delight is to get a
wheelbarrow farm, and come into Redruth market, and talk tin. Cousin
Jack likes to come home to die and be buried. He's like a Chinaman in
his love for native dust.
Some Cornishmen live where they are born, but, as a rule, they drift
to all quarters of the world, and look longingly homewards, like the
Jew towards Jerusalem. The most conservative of all men is the fisher,
whose little all can be put on board his boat, and who is seldom far
from the smoke of his own chimney. The miners are restless, and always
ready to strike their tent and march. Only, wherever they go overseas,
their children are Cornish--the saints and piskies, the nuggies and
buccas, are all drummed into them, and there's no sun so bright, no
sea so blue, no air so soft in all the world, as in the dear old
county which they "belong" to, and shall see one day. There spring up
melodies in the little hearts over the seas, until they are Cornish in
every beat and throb. A youngster was posting a letter in Sydney, New
South Wales, and a friend of the family asked, "Where's that letter
going, sonnie?" "Home." "Where's home?" "Why, Cornwall, to be sure."[H]
Outside of itself the county has a large population containing a
goodly percentage of the salt of the earth.
[H] I believe this story was told by the Rev. Mark Guy Pearse; if not,
it might have been, it's so like him.
Redruth is under the shadow of Carn Brea, the home of paleolithic man.
The "Castle" doesn't count for much now the Druids have been played
out. The Bookworm told us that enough rubbish had been written about
the Druids to build a respectable beacon fire, and what was worth
preserving would go in a watch-pocket. However, there is Carn Brea,
and those who wish to see the Druids' altars may, without let or
hindrance. The Carn looks over the mines, and you may see the sea on
the north and the sea on the south, winking like two eyes of heavenly
blue. The guide-books recommend a clear day for preference. It is said
that underneath this bare and poverty-looking ridge of rocks there is
mineral wealth enough to buy up King Solomon's mines. It's nice to know
that the riches of the world are under one's feet, and all poor people
on the tramp who like the sensation can have it here free of charge.
In fact, there is no charge for anything--you may drink at the holy
wells, visit the churches, see the antiquities, go down the mines, walk
through museums, and "do" everything with a smile and a civil tongue.
No charge; tip as you please. A cheerful giver has his reward.
It was somewhere under the shadow of Carn Brea that "Baron Munchausen"
was born in the lively brain of one Rudolph Eric Rasp, a fugitive
Hanoverian, at one time Assay-master and store-keeper at Dolcoath
Mine. Herr Rasp, Professor of Archæology, and Curator of the Museum at
Cassel, and member of the Royal Society, England, appropriated some
precious medals under his charge, and skipped. He hadn't learnt the
tenth commandment properly, and forgot the eighth. People in places of
trust are better educated now, but this was one hundred and fifty years
ago. The Bookworm told us that Baron Munchausen was a real man, and
Herr Rasp wrote his wonderful "adventures." No one knows the house in
which Herr Rasp lived, but the Bookworm insisted on looking at every
cottage and barn with the touch of antiquity upon it, within a radius
of three miles from Dolcoath. He liked to do it, and was satisfied.
The invention of coal gas as an illuminant took place at Redruth, and
a tablet commemorating the discovery is actually placed outside the
house in which William Murdoch, the inventor, lived. Murdoch was not
a Cornishman, hence the tablet. The Bookworm touched the walls of
the house, the door-handle, and the knocker, but we didn't see that
anything special came of it. Camborne is also in the mining division,
and has wider streets and fewer shops than Redruth; but, then, it
has gone in for brains, and young men wishful to learn mining come
here now, and go through a course of lectures in class-rooms, and go
underground and work. "The Oxford of mining students" is Camborne, only
the students live where they like, and have latch-keys. Joshua Cristall
was born here, so also was Richard Trevithick, the first to apply steam
to locomotives. We did not see any public monument to either.
The people in this division are "Weslums," and great on chapels, but
"fall from grace" when there is a political election. It is sad, but
politics stir up the old Adam worse than a drop in the price of tin.
Candidates for parliamentary honours are only accepted by insurance
offices at extra-risk premiums. Guy intends going in for Parliament one
day, and studied the matter on the spot. He thinks he knows a softer
place.
A good deal of woman-labour is employed in mines. They are the
bal-maidens, and work on the dressing-floors. Work agrees with them,
and Professor Sandow wouldn't find much room for developing the muscles
of a bal-maiden. We saw some at work from the train, and heard them
singing. We saw others nearer, and they were singing also. It's just
part of the business to sing, and more hymns are sung over Cornish tin
than over all the rest of the minerals raised in the world. One girl
starts singing, and the rest join in; and very sweet singing it is when
heard in the open. The surface men catch on, and there's just sweet
harmony, whilst the stamps are dancing, and the great bob is going up
and down, pumping out water. Nothing stops when the orchestra is in
full swing. The men generally sing, too, when going and coming, and
they like a hymn with a good, rousing march tune. After the night and
early morning shifts, the hills and valleys are tuneful, and people
hearing know what hour it is, as the shifts are regular. There are four
shifts in the twenty-four hours. A shift is called a "coor."
[Illustration: HIGH AND DRY.]
[Illustration: "KNACKED BALS." (_disused mines_)]