The man in soft felt hat, and brown canvas bag slung across his side,
with wicked-looking little hammer-head peeping out, is a common object.
Specimens enough have been taken out of the county to metal a turnpike
road, and yet the scientific stone-man comes and tumbles over the
refuse-heaps once again, and chips little bits on his own account, and
carries them off. To find sermons in stones is his reward, and there
are sermons enough, in all conscience, in a county which is mostly
stone, or something harder. When a man of science in a soft felt hat is
missing, the first idea is that he's fallen down an old mine shaft, and
that his stone treasures have taken him safely to the bottom, a hundred
fathoms or so under water. It is well to beware of one's steps, and
not to take short cuts in the dark across moors and downs which are
honeycombed.
We were told we might amuse ourselves by turning over the
rubbish-heaps, and, for reward, pick up a few specimens of ore,--no one
would interfere with us; and we might wander at will in and about the
ruins of square towers and "count-houses," which people fancy, at first
sight, are baronial castles in ruins. They are ruins, right enough,
and the money sunk in the engine shafts would have built castles and
pyramids. These ruins look best at a distance, with big bundles of
broom shivering and rotting in sunshine and storm. There is something
weird and uncanny about the look of these ruins, with broom-bundles,
like black things of misfortune, hung about them. The Bookworm said
that broom was a sign or symbol of bad luck. We didn't find fortunes
in turning over stones on rubble-heaps, and only secured a few tin and
mundic and copper specimens of no value to the owner. Guy said they
would look swagger when labelled, "Tin found on Scatmoor, Cornwall."
The beginnings of a museum were in his pockets, he said, when they
began to bulge out.
There were some small houses scattered about, and every house was in
a garden. None were empty; but as all the mines around were idle,
we began to wonder what the population lived on. There must be work
somewhere, but a long way off, we thought; so far, indeed, that the
men would tire morning and night when going and coming. The houses were
low, two-storied dwellings, built of moor-stone, and roofed with thick
turves kept in place by flat, heavy stones. The people we saw were
mostly aged, or women with young children.
We came across an old fellow sitting on a big stone, blinking with
watery eyes at an old ruined mine engine-house. He made us welcome, and
offered us the whole of the stone he was sitting on; but we squatted
on the turf, and let the green lizards run over us--we said we liked
it like that. Very soon we were interested in the old boy, who told us
he was Jim Tregedga, the son of Jim Tregedga before him, and he cited
Tregedgas sufficient to reach back to the days of the Deluge. The house
he lived in he built himself "out of coor," that is to say, in spare
time, and he fenced in the bit of garden, ditto. It was moor land,
and no one said him nay, so he took what he wanted, and the rest did
the same. All the houses were built like that, and every man his own
landlord. All the mines around were working then, and at every shift
hundreds of young men poured out of these stone hives and went to work
underground or upon "grass." And all the maidens rose early and went to
work upon the dressing-floors, singing like thrushes. The mine was the
soul of the moor, and the pumps and stamps its music. The young men
now are spread over South Africa and Australia, South America and the
regions of Klondike; and the old people and young wives and children
were left at home, dependent for daily bread upon the love of kindred
whom they might never see again.
Things were so different in the old days, when Cousin Jack was full
of money, and spent it like a king, and then went to work again with
a good heart, and always ready to kiss the maidens, or "wrassle" and
break a head on paydays. In fact, Cousin Jack wouldn't go home without
a fight, unless he was poorly. This old man knew the names of all the
mines round about, and their histories; when they "cut rich," and when
they "cut out" and were shut down, and the broom hoisted to tell all
the world that another bal had gone wrong.
[Illustration: MORWENSTOW CLIFFS.]
Every mine had its own particular spirit, or family of spirits, called
"nuggies." Every household was brought up in a firm faith in nuggies,
and the good or bad fortune of a mine depended on the temper of the
nuggies. Men working on "tribute" were very careful not to offend
the spirits of the mine, and they had to be careful, or they would
earn little, and were sometimes lucky to reach grass alive. These
spirits had underground workshops, wherein they worked upon silver
anvils, and the walls sparkled with crystals of pure tin and virgin
silver. These workshops were called "parlours," and, as they were
not always willing to be disturbed, they misled the miners, making
them believe that the tinkling upon the silver anvils was in the very
opposite direction:--such was their power. Or they would cease working
altogether, and then the men would become disheartened, and say the
nuggies had forsook the bal, and she might as well be "knacked" at
once, for all the profit she would yield. But the nuggies were good to
poor tributers sometimes, after they had been working for weeks and
months on starvation wages. Months and months of work and no sound
through the gloomy corridors but the tap, tap, of the steel-edged
tools, and the fall of rock, barren and unprofitable; and then, all at
once, the music on the silver anvils, and falling water, indicating
the presence of the precious lode. If a man worked underground he was
bound to believe in nuggies; and if he did not believe, and said so,
then he was sure to be punished, for the nuggies had a way of leading
men into trouble. A favourite way was to hide danger from a man until
he was on the brink of it, and then, if stubborn and would not take
warning, they'd let him fall over a precipice, or down an old shaft,
and be heard of no more in the land of the living. What they gave, they
gave freely, and took no toll--they wanted none, all the minerals in
the universe belonging to the nuggie family; only they would have men
civil, and civility brought rich rewards.
The talk was rambling, and Guy put many questions. Had deponent ever
seen a nuggie? Well, he believed he had. He was working on Wheal Rose,
first coor by night, and he saw a flash at the end of the stope, and
Jan Trebilcock slapped his hand over his (deponent's) mouth so that
he shouldn't screech. That was a nuggie going into his parlour, and
Jan Trebilcock followed the lead and came upon a lode as rich as King
Solomon's mines whilst it lasted. And he'd heard old men say----
But Guy wouldn't have hearsay. Then deponent said he had heard the
tinkling upon silver anvils, and beautiful it was, like the melody of
church bells on a summer eve. The nuggies always took their anvils
with them when they gave up possession of a workshop--they were wanted
elsewhere.
"Provoking," said Guy. "Whenever we get very near to something it
vanishes in this land of piskies and fairies and other enchantments."
A little lizard crawling over Guy turned brilliant colours, which, the
old miner observing, said there was a "thunder planet" passing, and
wished us to come into his cottage. We had wandered five miles, but
thought we could return before the storm burst, in which, however, we
were mistaken, for we had hardly trotted a couple of miles when it
burst with sub-tropical fury. Had it been night, the sight would have
been splendid; but we had to dart for cover into a man's house, like
three drowned rats. There was no ceremony about our entrance, and none
was wanted. An old man and woman were the only occupants, and they made
us welcome, but our clothes stuck to us. We drank some hot tea and ate
the remains of our pasties to the accompaniment of celestial artillery,
which put to shame the battle of Mukden. Still it poured, and the
cottage trembled sometimes when the thunder was loudest. The two old
people were quite tranquil, and the only apparent trouble they had in
the world was our wet clothes. The little rivulets which ran from us
were dried up, but might be traced on the stone floor, making zigzag
courses towards the door.
Then came the old man's hour for reading a Psalm, and he opened the
"big book" without any apparent thought of strangers being present.
"'Th' Loard es ma sheper; I shall not waant'--no fath, I shaant.
"'He maaketh me to lie down en green pastures'--ez, that 'e do, th'
precious dear."
And so, until he finished, and shut the book. "Now we will zay a few
words, for th' dear Loard is with us;" and without more to do, he went
down upon his knees and spread out his hands, and his face shone. If
there was a soul in happiness in the universe, it was this one; and
he did not forget the strangers under his roof. "Ef'm be out in th'
wilderness, Loard, guide'm like a good sheper; and ef'm be cauld, warm
'em en Thy buzum, and turn 'em out to lie down en green pastures."
The rain stopped suddenly, and the thunder grew more distant, and the
lightning less vivid, and when we were once more upon the downs a
strange feeling crept over us.
"I never thought I should have found myself kneeling in a miner's hut,
saying my prayers," said Guy. "This would just have suited Softie
Smith, who's in Orders now--going to be a bishop, or something. At
school, Softie was always longer at his devotions than the rest, and
we used to shy things at him to remind him that the dormitory was
waiting. Sometimes the boys made extra good shots at Softie and got
him waxy; and one night he suddenly rose from his knees, shouting,
'Amen-who-shied-that-boot?' It was a shout, by Jove! and the captain
on his rounds heard it; but we were little angels when he came to us,
and Softie got a wigging for making a row. After that we dropped the
'Softie,' and re-named him 'Amen-who-shied-that-boot?' which will sound
splendidly when he's a bishop. 'My lord Amen-who-shied-that-boot,
from Lower Egypt, then addressed the meeting,' will look well in the
papers. The name'll push him on in the world, and that he'll owe to us."
The Bookworm wouldn't be drawn, and we walked, one on each side of him,
until we reached the road, and then kept to it carefully, to avoid
tumbling down some old, disused mine shaft. He gave our hands an extra
grip before retiring, saying, "I shall never forget."
"I hope the little beggar isn't going to be ill," said Guy. "I don't
like a fellow to talk solemnly, and grip your hands, and all that,
after he's been wet to the skin."
But no harm came of it.
[Illustration: THE MANACLES.]