The completion of Penzance Public Buildings forms an epoch in the history of the place, and an elderly person cannot help contrasting the present appearance of the town with what it was three score years, or a century, ago; as we know it to have been from well-remembered vestiges of the old time, and from the accounts of our grandparents, who, if they revisited the glimpses of the gaslight in our town at the present time would be much surprised, and not over well pleased, at all the changes which have taken place during the last hundred years, many of [127]which are alterations without improvement, nay often wanton destruction of what can never be restored, however regretted. Who that remembers the picturesque and interesting old market-house, with the corresponding buildings surrounding or near it, such as the house in which Sir Humphry Davy was born, the cosy nook under the balcony of the ‘Star’ Inn, where often of an evening he held his youthful comrades spellbound by the wonderful stories that his poetical imagination inspired, can help regretting removal and loss? I can’t understand, nor can many others, what was the inducement to remove the old balcony from this inn, and other houses throughout the town. They were no obstruction to the footpath, and the very aspect of these appropriate, cosy-looking entrances to the old inns infused a feeling of comfort and seclusion that one misses very much in the glaring lantern-like modern hotels. Besides, as an interesting memorial of our most illustrious townsman, it is ten thousand pities it should have been destroyed. The picturesque scene is gone, never to be restored, which was formed by the projecting balcony, with its rustic pillars and casemented lights, combined with the high gables, mullioned and labled windows, with the penthouse-like projections of the old market-house. It is much to be regretted that, when the old building was taken down, its site should have been occupied by any structure more massive than an elegant monument to Sir Humphry Davy—suppose it had been a fountain, of an antique Gothic pattern, surmounted by the statue of Sir Humphry, with niches in the basement for memorials of other celebrities connected with the town, or its vicinity, as Pellew, Davies Gilbert, &c., &c. The first mistake was to build on the site at all; the second to adopt the Italian style for a building to be erected in such a confined space. It must be apparent to anyone who has studied the matter that the Gothic or old English style, with its acute gables, pinnacles, pendants, balconies, oriels, and other projecting appendages for use or ornament, which that style admits, is felt to be more suitable to a confined space, because any imitation of the classical styles is very unsatisfactory, unless it has sufficient breadth and massiveness to produce the impression of grandeur, as well as just proportion, which cannot be appreciated, however just it may be, unless there is sufficient space around to allow the spectator the choice of a station from which the whole facade of the building may be taken into the view. In the old English, on the contrary, one does not look for breadth, massiveness, and correspondence in the various portions of the structure, but rather to that lightness and variety which is even more interesting when seen only in such broken portions, and from such points of sight as would spoil the effect of the regular styles. Besides, perhaps from being accustomed to meet with the picturesque old style in ancient [128]walled towns, where the streets are always narrow, it never seems out of place in a confined space, if the surrounding buildings are of a simple or corresponding style, or at least are not such as to produce a violent contrast.

Any small building, designed after classical examples, looks naked and poor, and particularly mean, unless the building-materials are of the best description and finish, and is quite unsuitable for the houses of a narrow street, which must necessarily be small and irregular, where the frontages range only from about 20 to 40 feet, and where the adjoining houses belong to different proprietors, who delight to display their independence of each other and common sense, by each one building on his 20 or 30 feet frontage according to his own caprice, and desire to show off his own originality of conception.

If our beautiful old English style (which is the most suitable for the climate and everything else) cannot be again restored, the next best is the Venetian, which may be defined as the Saracenic (or what the French call the Grec-Arab) engrafted on the Italian. The Venetian, like our old English (or domestic Gothic, if you will), admits of great irregularity, and of great variety in the ornamentation. French architects have shown their appreciation of the peculiar suitableness of this variety for irregular and comparatively narrow streets, from their having adopted it in many of the old narrow streets abutting on the Seine, as may have been noted by some of our townsmen, who have recently visited the Exhibition and the gay capital generally.

As pretty fair examples of the adaptability of the old English to all the exigencies of modern comfort and refinement, and to prove that one may do whatever one likes with this pliable style, we have the Abbey, the Marine Retreat, some small cottages in Back Lane, also two or three pairs of semi-detached cottages near the Catholic Church. There are also some caricatures and abominable shams about, which throw discredit on the style. As interesting looking, therefore pleasing, villa residences we have Pendrea and Trewidden. Farther afield, there is an excellent example of picturesque simplicity and variety in the parsonage-house near Halsetown. This house is well worth the study of builders for its convenient arrangement on a square plan, for the variety of pleasing forms in the doorways, windows, and well-proportioned chimney-stacks and gables, as well as the ornamental slate-work with which some of its gables are dressed, as being more durable than ordinary barge-boards, which soon decay, whereas the slate [129]is everlasting. Nothing can form more picturesque groupings than this parsonage, and its church of corresponding style. As another example to show how our old English seems at home and at its ease everywhere, observe how well the addition made to the “First and Last,” becomes its site. This portion of the ancient inn at Sennen, and the cottages in Back Lane, Penzance, were designed by a self-taught architect, born and bred in Sennen, Mr. Charles Hutchens, who resided many years at Torpoint, constructed many buildings in Devonport, in the Three Towns generally, and in other parts of the country, of which any architect might be proud. The nephew of this gentleman, Mr. Thomas Hutchens, of Sennen, is now Mr. Gilbert Scott’s right-hand man; and, like his master, his whole heart and soul is devoted to Gothic architecture.

In the opinion of many persons of taste, the quaint old market house—low, irregular, and devoid of all pretentions to ornament—when surrounded by houses of as simple a mode, was a more pleasing object than the present insipid, silly-looking structure, which, when first seen from Market-jew-street, looks like a heavy wall to support a portico and dome to which there is no body of building. A grand entrance, to which one cannot see the means of access, and which apparently leads to nothing. This end is the more faulty, because the most pretentious.

The old French chateau style, with its steep pitched roofs, turrets, galleries, balconies, &c., (of which we have a fair example in the Queen’s Hotel) is far better adapted for a private residence in our wet and windy climate than the naked, cold-looking Italian, with its flat, low-pitched roof, ashamed to be seen, and such other appurtenances as are only suitable for a temple, or other large public building, in a sunny clime.

We cannot think of the old market-house without remembering the animated scene around it of a market day. On the higher side, at the corn-market steps, opposite the ‘Golden Lion,’ the jolly farmers and their buxom wives would be seen arriving, seated each on two or more sacks of grain, with a basket of butter and eggs on the dame’s arm, and probably a basket of poultry on that of her lord. The crowing, squalling, laughing, and scolding, showed a sound heart and lungs, and that the old folks were neither ashamed nor afraid to be seen to do their own work; and the appetizing steam which ascended through the open kitchen window of the cosy hostel, at the foot of the stairs, told them, as the screeching, hard-labouring, roasting-jack, as plainly as jack could speak, that plenty of good substantial fare would soon be ready for their equally substantial appetites. There is no mistake about it; there was less nonsense about people then than now. [130]At that time the ladies of squires, merchants, and farmers, did their own marketing, aye and often such dames as Mesdames Noye, Trezillian, Ustick, Pender, in the west country, and others of equal rank in town, would ride to mill on sacks of corn and bolt the meal themselves. The sturdy butchers—to be seen in the meat market then—were mostly occupiers of land near the town, and cultivated many of the farms of Madron. The crooks with which the transverse bars (between the stalls and overhead in all parts of the house) were armed, sometimes caught in the ladies’ towering head-dresses.

There is a story told of a gay Madam Trezillian, of Raftra, who outdid all other ladies in the west country in the breadth of her hoops and the height of her tete, as the tower of cushions, ribbons, lace, and hair was called with which the heads of the dames were surmounted. Against one St. Levan feast a barber was had out from Penzance to dress the lady’s head-piece in the most approved mode of the town. It must be understood that when the heads of these ancient belles were put en grande toilette they were not taken down at night, often for weeks together.

That these monstrous head-pieces might not be deranged, the bedsteads were made a foot or two longer than the ordinary affair of the present day. During the feasten week, having company to entertain all the time, madam’s tete of course was not disturbed, nor for a week or two after, when she was engaged in visiting, until she felt such a head-ache that she was obliged to send for Dr. Maddron, from St. Just, that he might see what ailed her noddle. Still the precious mass of wool, pomatum, &c., remained undisturbed on the outside, when the doctor arrived, and insisted on having it taken down and opened. Then they say that he found a nest of mice had been littered in the greasy pads which raised the lady’s hair, besides any quantity of fly-blows in their different stages of growth. No doubt, the old mother mouse came every night to nurse her interesting tender brood of young ones. Madam’s head was in such a state that she was obliged to have it shaved. The hair was carefully saved and made up into a false head-dress (one could hardly call it a wig) against Madron-tide, when she came to pass the feast with Squire Daniel at Alverton. The feasten eve, in walking through the market house with Madam Daniel, the bows of her towering tete caught on the crooks. Still, on she walked the whole length of the market, when she discovered her loss by the uproar of laughter with which the lady’s bald pate and her suspended head-dress were greeted by the butchers and their boys, and by their wives as well. [131]

One can’t take leave of the old market without some notice of the handsome fisherwomen, in their picturesque old costume of short scarlet cloaks and broad felt hats, which well became their coal-black eyes and hair, and heightened the oriental cast of their countenances. Then their tongues, loud and musical, hailing every one who passed the street:—“Wount ’e buy some nice fresh fish to-day, my dear?” “Cheeld vean; why you shall have en for nothan; do come here!” As well as their chaffing and slack jaw at each other and all the world besides. Above all, the shoemakers, who kept their stalls near by, came in for a good share of their gibes. People had a heart to laugh then, and were all the better friends even for a little rough talk, before so much organised hypocrisy, whining cant, and morbid feeling became the fashion, which seems, if possible, to be increasing in intensity and stupidity in Penzance.

The buildings surrounding the Market Place, Green-Market, and many other parts of the town, were mongrelized about the time of the erection of the new structure by taking the mullions out of the windows of many houses, lowering the pitch of their roofs, erecting useless unmeaning parapets, covering walls of dressed granite and ornamental slate work with plaster and other shams, until the surrounding buildings were changed into worse-looking objects if possible than the centre piece. A specimen of the true appreciation of just proportion which seems to have been intuitive with old masons may yet be seen in the dressed chimney-stacks, with embattled mouldings, belonging to an old house at the north-western corner of the market-place. In the premises, more examples of the old style will be found. When this old house was first built, it was said to have been the grandest mansion in Buriton, as a good part of what is now included with old Penzance was then named,—all around the Market Place.

Near the Alverton entrance to Fox’s gardens is an old thatched cottage1 which ought to have been regarded with much interest, as it was the home of Pellew (Admiral Lord Exmouth) during his boyish days. Here he lived with his aged grandmother, Madam Woodhouse, until he left to commence his career of usefulness and glory that added much to the renown of the British nation. I have heard many anecdotes of the hero’s boyish days from an old lady of the West Country (the daughter of a gentleman farmer of Sennen) who, when a girl in her teens, was sent to Penzance [132]to reside with her uncle and aunt, that she might attend a better school than was to be found in the West Country.

At that time boys and girls often went to the same school until they were much older than it would be considered decorous for them to remain together in these thin-skinned, fastidious times.

Young Pellew went to the same school as the girl from the Land’s End, who, being two or three years older than the boy, called for him at his grandmother’s house; but the country girl always had a hard task to get him to school, and often, in spite of all she could do, and threats of the old lady’s cane, young Pellew would take off to the Quay, whither the girl had to follow, as, if she was known to have let him escape, she would get a sound thrashing from her own aunt, who was a great friend of the boy’s grandmother and paid the same attention to the boy Edward Pellew as to her own children. As soon as the boy reached the pier he would spring into the first boat he found afloat, cast off the painter, and away to sea, without staying to notice if there were oars in the boat or not.

His companion and guardian in petticoats would remain on the Battery rocks, or pier, with her knitting or needle-work, that she might signal to Pellew when it was time for him to come in, to return home to dinner.

Often the fishermen and sailors at the Quay, who all loved the daring boy and kept a watch over him, would go out in another boat and help him to come ashore in time to save his bacon. Sometimes one or both of the old ladies would find out the truants, come to the Quay after them, and beat them both home to Alverton lane, where Pellew would take refuge with old Mr. Boase, who always took the boy’s part, as well as that of his niece (the west country girl) in spite of all the old ladies and the schoolmaster might say.

To make amends for the beatings the Sennen girl got for letting Edward Pellew escape from school (which she liked to do very well herself now and then) and for doing his sums for him (whilst he occupied himself in making boats and ship’s gearing under the desk), he would often drive her uncle’s cows from the Weeths (the ground that is now Mr. Bolitho’s lawn) down to Alverton to water, or bring them home to their yard in Alverton lane—the site of which was near where our worthy Mayor’s (Mr. Francis Boase) garden now stands—to be milked of an evening.

As he was soon taught to be a famous boxer by his friends the sailors of the Quay, who would always have him with them if they could, he wanted to put his science in practice by thrashing any boy double his size, if they happened to offend his protectress, who, when fourscore years of age, has often shown me a lot of trifles Pellew sent home to his grandmother for his old school-mate; [133]among other things a variety of perforated foreign coins, such as sailors like to suspend from their watch chains, a pair of ladies’ silver shoe-buckles, &c.

When Pellew went to sea the old lady, his grandmother, used often to say, “If I could but live to see my Teddy made a captain I would die contented.” The old lady lived long enough to see him knighted, and I think made an Admiral, before she died.

How Sir Edward Pellew would have none, or few, but Cornish men for his crew; how the Mount’s Bay and St. Just men would volunteer for him, when the press gang (who wanted men, and the devil a man could they get for other ships but his) were beaten out of Mousehole by the women, led on by Ann St. Doyd (Ann’s right name was Pentreath), armed with a red-hot poker, is well known. As every incident of his life, after he went to sea, became matter of history, we cannot claim any more of it as belonging exclusively to Penzance.

From the house in which Admiral Lord Exmouth passed his boyish days there was a pleasant footpath, long after that time, through the fields to Alverton, separated from the lane by a high hedge and shady trees; and the lane itself, from the Ellises’ Mansion (or the site of the Western hotel) to the seat of the Daniels, in Alverton (or probably the Jenkin’s at that time), was like a bower all the way, with the overhanging trees, except a good strip of green extending from Mr. F. Boase’s house down almost to the pathway leading to Alverton well. On this green the fair was formerly held. It has but recently been removed to a field. All the highroads at this time were pleasant green lanes. There was no such thing as a cart West of Penzance. Here and there an ox-butt might be found. We will return to the green lanes, and those who jogged along them on bow-pad or pillion, when we come to take a retrospective view of the country.

Before leaving this part of the town, let us cast a glance at the three or four little cottage-like dwellings just opposite the lane leading to the Well fields, on the higher side of the entrance to The Hollies. These cottages were regarded as very genteel residences, half a century ago, before the North Parade and some score of other terraces, which now form the most pleasant portions of the town, were ever born or thought of. Then, the cottage nearest to The Hollies’ gate was the residence of the Rev. William Spry, many years curate of Sennen and St. Levan. The reverend [134]gentleman was one of those eccentric, or independent, characters who pay no regard either to conventional modes or to the opinion of those who have no need to trouble themselves about their harmless whims. His dapper little figure, dressed up in the most anti-clerical, not to say ridiculous, of costumes, must still be well remembered by many in town and country. Notwithstanding his eccentric vagaries, he was always a welcome guest, for the sake of his never-failing good humour, quick repartee, and the droll stories of which he was generally the hero. His most extravagant freaks were mostly harmless, and always amusing, at least to the spectators (yet with all the care taken to qualify his characteristics, we may have to make some exceptions when the parson mounts his wooden horse.)

When in the reading-room, public library, or any other place of resort for gentlemen of the town, the parson was always the centre of attraction and fun. One day, in the library, Mr. Spry was, as usual, relating some of his amusing drolls, when an elderly gent, Gen. Tench (who very much liked to hear himself talk), finding that he could not have the chance to get in a word edgeways even, interrupted the parson by saying “Come, Mr. Spry, as you appear to know a great deal about everything, be pleased to explain the difference between a major canon and a minor canon?” “Pho! pho!” replied Mr. Spry, in his lisping accent, “what a general! not to know the difference between a major cannon and a minor cannon. Why a major cannon is a great gun, and a minor cannon is a thun (son) of a cun (gun), to be thure (sure.)” The general wheeled on his heels, and went away without firing any more of his guns at the parson for that day.

The reverend gentleman, finding the hire of a horse to take him to the scene of his clerical duties more than he could well afford out of his slender income, took it into his head to have a velocipede, hoping, with the assistance of the machine, to be able to ride out to the Land’s End at his ease, hills excepted, when he would have to drag his horse. He first exercised his wooden horse, by way of breaking it in, on the descent from St. Just lane’s end to Alverton. He was very proud of his horse, when he found it would run down the hill with so much speed. The next market day, early in the morning, the parson stationed himself, mounted on his horse, on the top of Tul-tuf hill, to challenge anybody coming from, or going to the market, to try a race, always down the hill be it understood. Plenty of the farmers desired no better fun than to try a race with the parson on his wooden horse; but their own nags, not knowing what to make of the parson’s queer beast, going like the wind on three legs, in their fears and doubts about the nature of the thing threw their riders in the ditch, and sprung over the hedges, that they might not be overtaken by what [135]they must have thought a most unnatural-looking affair. So the parson won the wager, and boasted long and loud that his horse was the best in the West; but in the last race that Thursday morn, the three-legged Bucephalus attained such velocity in descending the hill near Alverton that it became quite unmanageable and fairly ran away with its gallant rider as fast as its wheels could spin. When it came to Alverton water (there was no bridge over the water which then worked the old factory) several market women were on their nags, in the midst of the pooled-up water, to let their horses drink and breathe awhile.

Whilst their heavy baskets of butter and eggs rested carelessly on their knees to give rest to their weary arms whilst having a chat, in dashed the parson, on his horse, in the very midst of them. He tumbled over in the water, with the machine between his legs. All the women were thrown off their horses, which galloped away—some home, some like mad into the town to their accustomed yards and stables, others ran they didn’t know where; but fancy what a wreck was there, with the broken eggs, barm-jars, butter, and baskets on the road, or floating down the stream! The women were so exasperated that they half-killed the parson between them. In the heat of their passion they pelted him with butter and eggs, then rolled him in the mud, until luckily some gentlemen came to the rescue of the parson and his steed.

The next Sunday the reverend gentleman being unable to attend to his duties at the Land’s End, his parishioners, as well as most of the people of the West, who had congregated at St. Levan church and along the roads, hoping to see the parson racing his horse, were much disappointed. The fame of his Thursday’s adventure had spread far and near, so that such a gathering was never seen before in the church except at the feasten tide. Against the following Sunday the parson had sufficiently recovered his broken skin and his courage to be off early in the morning, for fear of disappointing his congregation again. The people waited long about the cliff and Rospletha hill, looking out in vain; at last, fearing some accident had happened, from seeing neither sight nor sign of their pastor, a good number of them proceeded along the road towards Penzance, two miles or more, when they saw the parson’s well-known dog, Sport, coming towards them. Sport testified his joy at seeing some of his friends, and ran back, yelping and barking, and looking behind him to beg the people to follow him fast. In a few minutes, on turning the corner of Cotneywilley, they found the parson and his horse in a deep pool of mud at the bottom of the hill, or rather the runaway steed was deep in the muddy hole. The rider had contrived to scramble out and shake himself just as they arrived. Old Mr. Ellis, of Trendrennen, being among the people who came to the relief of their forlorn pastor, he was helped along to that [136]old gentleman’s house, which the parson usually made his resting-place.

Mr. Spry never trusted his wooden horse to make such long journeys any more, and people of the two western parishes, who liked their parson very much, because he was very sociable, never wearied them with tiresome platitudes, nor bothered them with what some call deep (that is inexplicable) dogmas and notions, were very indulgent, and never complained whether he came early or late, or stayed away for weeks together on account of bad weather.

The doings of the parson’s handsome black dog Sport added much to the interest of the Sunday’s performances. Sport seemed to think that some dogs belonging to his master’s parishes had not so much right to enjoy church privileges as himself. To others—larger dogs than himself—he was more indulgent, and even condescended to wag his tail at them, but woe to any audacious dog of a smaller size, or a shorter tail, that presumed to venture into the more respectable or parson’s portion of the church East of the rud locks (rood loft.) Sport would then show the rustic dogs the colour of his teeth and drive them into the belfry, where the other country dogs would follow to see fair play, or perhaps to give the town-bred puppy a bite by the sly, if they saw their own comrade likely to get the worst of the game.

One Sunday, a dog belonging to a farmer who sat near the chancel, seemed inclined to come nearer the parson’s ground than he liked. Both dogs then said as plain as looks could express, “Come then, to decide which shall look the biggest; let’s try our right, down in the belfry, by a quiet bit of a fight.” Off walked the two dogs, began and continued their fight without making much noise, until the parson was in the midst of reading the second lesson. Then Sport gave some dreadful yells, which so much alarmed his master, that he stopped reading, bundled up his surplice under his arm, ran in all haste down to the belfry, drove out the country dog, and shut in his own by way of penance among the shovels, brooms, pickaxes, bell-ropes, planks, and other lumber. When the parson returned to the reading-desk, he leaned over towards the old clerk, and asked “Where was I, Josey?” meaning the verse of the lesson at which he left off. Uncle Josey, the clerk, being rather deaf, like most deaf people spoke rather loud—loud enough to be heard all over the church—when he intended only to whisper “Where war ’e? What do ’e mean, master? Why down in the belfry, parting the dogs to be sure!” Sport took it in high dudgeon, to be imprisoned like a felon. When he found barking and howling of no use towards procuring his release from durance [137]vile, he contrived to entangle himself in the bell-rope (left dangling up and down) by getting his head into the running noose, made by the sexton for his foot, to assist in tolling the great bell, which Sport set a ringing and soon rung himself out.

Another day, whilst the parson was reading the burial service over the defunct, his dog Sport behaved himself in a very unseemly manner, for such a solemn occasion, by kicking up a dust among the dry-bones, howling at the mourners, catching their dresses in his mouth, and renting off yards of the deepest affliction or crape from the young widow, and other such like pranks. The parson, reading, with one eye on the book, the other on his dog, at the end of every portion where the clerk had to respond Amen, called “Sport!” and Sport replied with a bark. At the conclusion, in the same breath with the words, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I commit this body to the ground,” the parson called out louder than ever “Sport! Sport! Come here;” turning quickly round at the same time as if to catch the dog and bury him.

There is much more told by good folks of the two most western parishes about the freaks of this reverend gentleman who had the cure of their souls half a century ago; but enough has been related to give some idea of the greater simplicity of those times, when there certainly was not the same sourness, and disposition to magnify faults and failings into mortal sins, as there is now by the rampant religionists, who display their ferocious virtue principally by circulating slander, under the guise of pity for those who do not choose to adopt their morbid notions, whining cant, and grimace.

A short time after the velocipede adventure, Mr. Spry removed hence to Morwelham, and soon became as well known on the Tamar as here, for his eccentric freaks.

A little more than sixty years ago, the Rev. James Bevan, of Glamorganshire, died at St. Levan. This gentleman lived amongst his parishioners, and served as curate in the two western parishes, nearly half a century. Old folks of the West always speak with great respect of this venerable clergyman and his family, who were regarded by the people with as much affection as if they had been their near relatives. A handsome tablet has recently been erected to the memory of this gentleman in St. Levan church, as also one to Miss Thomazine Dennis. This lady was born at Sawah, and noted for her literary and scientific acquirements, which were the more notable in one brought up in that remote part of the world. We hope these memorials, and many other objects of interest in the remarkable old church, will long remain [138]undisturbed in spite of the contemplated destruction of one of the most interesting monuments of ecclesiastical architecture to be found in the county, and which is hallowed by traditions dear to the people who properly belong to the place.

In conjunction with the good parsons, we have a pleasing remembrance of the respectable, unaffected old clerks, to be found in most of the country churches half a century ago. In general, the clerks were small farmers sufficiently well educated to be able to read the Bible and church service fluently (occasionally passing over hard words); but, from their having no other books to read in country schools than the universal spelling-book, psalter, and Bible, they were incapable of understanding any work of general literature (as a great part of our agricultural population are now, in fact.)

Our clerks were mostly the leaders of the choir, if such a term may be applied to the four or five old men who droned out the psalms from the singing-loft, where every Sunday one or two psalms from the old version were sung in parts, much after the manner of the old three-man’s-songs. One might often hear the old clerk in Sennen give out the lines beginning with, “My saule is like a timmersone bur-r-d-e, &c.” Then, after he had made the pitch-pipe produce a shrieking squeak, the three or four old souls, accompanied by their bass-viol, would quaver on, making such shrill and startling sounds as would set your hair on end and shake your teeth loose. Down in St. Levan, Uncle Josey, the clerk, would always have his own way about the singing, in spite of the parson and everybody else. His favourite psalm was all about “the precious ointment running from Aaron’s beard down unto the skirts of his raiment.” From the old man’s admiration of this odorous and unctuous song of praise, one seldom had any other than what were known as the Aaron psalm and “t’other.” In the carol singing, on Christmas eve at night, the old men sang, and their brass buttons shone in all their glory, when, with heart and soul, they were ringing out such joyous strains as “Now let us be merry, and set sorrow aside,” &c.

Another favourite was an older carol, with the chorus of “Noel, noel, noel, born is the king of Israel.” There were often sung still older ones, which contain many such old catholic traditions as are found in the apocryphal gospel of St. Nichodemus and Lives of the Saints, such as one about the blessed Mary walking through the orchard, when she longed for a red ripe apple far above her reach, “Then up spoke the babe in blessed Mary’s womb; bow [139]down, apple tree, bow down, apple tree, that mother may have some.”

These simple ditties were then regarded with much reverence for their high antiquity. Some of the old manuscript carol-books, formerly used in churches at Christmas-tide, are still preserved with religious care by old folks of the West.

At this time, and long before, the men of Zennor were noticeable for their singing and other musical attainments, which they made a source of pleasure and profit, to themselves at least, from their being often asked to parish-feasts from a good distance off, especially down West (the wise folk live t’other side) that the feasters might be gratified by their harmonious strains in church on the Sunday, and brisk dancing tunes on their fiddles to set their heels a-shaking on other nights of the feasten week, besides for the sake of the new songs they often contrived to learn from the show people in Corpus Christi fair. But they were not often asked two years following, because when they once got into comfortable quarters, it was no easy matter to get rid of them until long after servy-day,2 when they had more than eaten their welcome. For the sake of their psalm-singing they used also to be often asked to attend funerals round about, when the friends wished to show more than ordinary respect to the deceased or themselves, and have the disconsolate widows cheered. The Zennor men, with their wives and children, never failed to come, with half a word’s asking, from miles away, and they have the same fondness for funerals still; whether seed-time or harvest, sunshine or rainy day, Zennor folks, old and young, will leave their work and scamper over hills and moors miles away to “a good buryal” (burying), where there is likely to be plenty of toddy and tobacco, cake and biscuit, provided for all comers. But their room is often better liked than their company; for, after the men have smoked and pocketed up as much good shag as opportunity would favour them to take, by stuffing into the palm of the hand instead of the bowl of the pipe, drunk as much toddy as they could possibly contrive to get hold of by shifting about from place to place, so as to be always near the jug of hot liquor as it is carried round for the people who remain outside, the women and children all push indoors that can, to look sharp after the cake and biscuits, of which they contrive to pocket up a good store for the children left home, and don’t forget the toddy, believe me, even if they have a “dish of nice, sweet, strong tea, shure enough.” After having stuffed and quaffed till near bursting point, they will scamper away home like prall’d3 dogs, and the devil a finger will they lend to help take the poor defunct [140]to his last home, often miles away, leave alone the singing. They are often too drunk to raise the funeral note, and make some fun, which serves just as well, by getting into an old ballad-tune by mistake. Zennor folks are not often asked to parish feasts for the sake of their singing now: they may stay home and bleat to Carn Galver for what anyone cares about the greedy goats.

We may here take leave of our old clerks, observing that they were in general better educated, or at least better informed, than the rest of the community, few of whom knew anything about what might be regarded as the current literature of the time. Yet, with all their ignorance of every work of fiction, except Robinson Crusoe and the Pilgrim’s Progress (the former always regarded as literally true), the oldest of old folks of fifty years ago knew many scraps of Grecian and Roman lore, as well as rare legends of ordinary saints, besides all those of our local ones. The story of the taking of Troytown was as well known to many as the game of that name. I well remember an old farm labourer who did not know his a, b, c; yet he would tell you much about the principal heroes of mythic history, and acquired the nickname of Plato from his always going about singing, when alone, the old song almost worthy of the sage, “Says Plato, why should man be vain, since bounteous heaven has made him great?” &c., or another about Aurora and Flora.

How came these uneducated and poor folks to get hold of so much of the old world lore? It may partly be accounted for by the more gregarious, or sociable, customs of the olden times, when there was much less to do in the winter season, before turnips were introduced into the west country (in a great measure by the example of the late Colonel Scobell), there being then but few cattle housed. Great part of the winter’s day was passed in hunting, in which sport one and all joined. After the substantial supper—no slops of tea then, but good home-brewed, with bread and cheese, beef, mutton, or bacon—the mistress and her maids spun, whilst the men carded the wool, song-singing and story-telling going on all the time, or the master read from their favourite Robinson Crusoe, or from Moore’s Almanack, which was also a great resource, or recited some drolls which all knew by heart; yet they never tire of hearing them repeated, with such variations and embellishments as some recent occurrence might often suggest.

A vast amount of curious information may also be traced to the sociable and beloved old parson, who kept up such familiar intercourse with his flock as to sympathise with all their joys and griefs, and to join in all their sports and pastimes during nearly half a century. [141]

We are long lingering amongst those old folks whom we are much inclined to regard as rude and uncouth. Yet our vaunted refinement has not discovered anything much better to supply the loss of the honest simplicity and the all-above board character of people of the last century.

We may observe that the foregoing remarks, with respect to the restricted education of the generality of people of the west, do not apply to many who were regarded as the bettermost class of farmers, or rather gentlemen-farmers, as they all resided on, and farmed their own estates. Many of this class were kept long enough at a grammar-school, in Penzance, or elsewhere, to learn a little Latin and mathematics; at least they acquired a sufficient knowledge of mensuration to enable them to measure their own fields. Many of those gentlemen were so much given to the study of astrology that they were regarded as conjurors by their domestics and more ignorant neighbours, who, seeing the horoscopes and schemes in the gentlemen’s old books, believed these strange-looking figures to be the secret signs of the means used for dealing with the invisible world, or for commanding the spirits of light and darkness, over whom it was devoutly believed that many skilful astrologers of the west had (by means of their books) perfect control. Among the most noted adepts in this science, the best known were Parson Corker, of Buryan; Mr. Jenkyn, of Trezidder, or Alverton; Dr. Maddron, of St. Just; Mr. Ustick, of Morvah; and Mr. Matthew Williams, of Mayon.

Some of the stories still related of this gentleman will serve as examples of the light in which he, and others of his class, were regarded by the more ignorant:—

One Sunday morning, whilst this gentleman was in Sennen church (which is only a few minutes’ walk from his house) he felt very uncomfortable. Something told him that all was not right at home. He left the church in the midst of the service, and ran home just in time to find that his over-curious old housekeeper had taken one of the conjuring-books out of the chest, the key of which he had missed and which she had stolen that morning for the sake of satisfying her itching curiosity. When he entered the room, he found her transfixed in her master’s arm-chair looking like death in a fright, the book open before her in the place of some of the most powerful spells for calling up the worst of evil spirits. The woman appeared like one in a fit, without the power to speak or move, until her master came in the very nick of time to prevent the spirits (that she had unwittingly summoned by reading the words, and tracing over the signs in the book with her finger) from carrying her off bodily. Some of the spirits became visible; [142]others lifted her, chair and all, off the floor when she stopped reading; and her fright made her fall into a fit. Mr. Williams read and read till the sweat boiled from his body, before he had the power to drive the evil spirits from the room, and the old housekeeper had to undergo a severe penance before she could be free of all danger from them.

Another time it was found that the gentleman’s furze rick was diminishing much faster than could be accounted for, for the consumption of fuel in his own house. He consulted his books, and discovered by his art that some women from the Cove made a practice of carrying away the furze every night. The very next night, after all honest folks should be in their beds, an old woman of the Cove came as usual to the rick for a burn of furze. She made one of no more than the usual size, which she tried to lift on to her back, but found that she could not move it. Then she took out half the furze, but was still unable to lift the faggot or so left in the rope. Becoming frightened, she tried to get out the rope and run, but found that she had neither the power to draw out the rope, nor move from the spot herself. Of course, the conjuror had put a spell on her, and there she had to remain throughout the cold winter’s night, until Mr. Williams came out and released her in the morning from the spell, and as she was a very poor old soul let her have a burn of furze, but she took good care never to come any more, nor any of the rest of the women, who soon found out how she had been served.

These puerile stories, and many more of the same class, often recounted about Mr. Williams, and many other gentlemen comparatively well educated for those times, are not without some significance, as they denote the power that in all times and places may be acquired by the learned over the minds of the ignorant, through their fears of the mystical and unknown.

It has been said that Miss Dennis (the learned lady before spoken of) caught the disorder, which was the cause of her slow but premature decease, by watching the courses of the stars during cold winter’s nights, for the sake of making calculations. This lady corresponded with many of the learned of her time. As these old astrologers had perfect faith in the principles of their ancient science, Astrology with them was not such mere imposition as it is generally supposed to have been.

They were consulted, not only with regard to the fortunes of those whose exact time of coming to light was known (the time of birth was then carefully registered, even to a minute, to serve as data on which to construct the horoscope), but were relied on for raising the spells of witchcraft, and often by their hints, advice, or [143]threats of exposure, procured the restoration of stolen property. They were generally believed to have the same faculty of divination as is now assumed by the Pellar of Redruth, who is making a fortune out of the credulity of people in our enlightened times.

We will now however leave them, and (by way of change) endeavour, after a few more tales, to get back to town by the usual mode of travelling in the last century.

As the notion of the transmigration of souls is not at all new to Cornish people, you may imagine that, in some former state of existence, you lived out west about the time that old Justice Jones resided in Penrose, and was long the unquestioned tyrant of that part of the country. In complaisance with the good pleasure of the justice, many old men in the parish, even farmers, did the work on his farms of Penrose and Brew, for no other payment than his worthless promise that their sons should not be impressed and sent off to serve the king on board a man-of-war. It seems that in the time of this ancient edition of Colonel Peard, the magistrates were intrusted with warrants which empowered them to draft off whomsoever they pleased for the king’s service, and to gratify their ill-will they had only to intimate to the press-gang that the disliked were eligible men.

Old Jones’s usual mode of proceeding was to compel all the labouring class to go to church every Sunday (in case of non-attendance these guardians of the law might also fine or imprison.) The justice would be first to leave the church, and would remain in the churchyard (where those who feared him were collected to learn his pleasure) until he had intimated what work he wished to have done, and by whom, during the week. When he wanted any extra hands during the week, as was often the case in harvest, furze-carrying, and other times of work requiring quick despatch, he would hoist a flag on a flag-staff which used to be placed in a large holed stone, which was perforated for that purpose, and built into the top of the angle formed by the green court and garden walls. It was a common saying that not to give anyone sufficient wages was like old Jones’s payment, of a kick in the rear, which many, who neglected their own harvest work to save the old justice’s corn, richly deserved. But he was not long allowed to domineer over the poor folks of the west. Many of the old families belonging to the parish, among whom the Vingoes, of Treville, were the most prominent, did all they could to check his proceedings. [144]This ancient Norman family, who had held Treville ever since the Conquest, and had been the wine-tasters to unknown Norman chiefs for equally unknown ages, regarded old Jones, for all his riches, as nothing but an upstart stranger in the west; yet they did not succeed in bringing the justice to act in a reasonable way until a smuggling crew came to their aid. Most of the young men of the west country (many of them farmers’ sons) belonged to this band, as well as two young men of Morvah—a Daniel and Ustick, who were related to the Vingoes, and might be styled gentlemen. Their head-quarters were at Priest’s Cove and Pendeen, as best suited their convenience. One fine day in the harvest, when old Jones had summoned folks from all over the parish to save his corn, the smugglers, taking the law into their own hands, marched down to Penrose well-armed, took the old justice and his man (as big a rogue as himself) from the house, hung them head downwards to a tree in the town-place, and gave them the bastinado until they were within an inch of giving up the ghost; then made the old sinner give them money to treat the men, and sent them off to pass a jovial day, “One and All,” at the First and Last. Before the smugglers left, they told the justice that, if he ever attempted to practice any of his old tricks again, they would come some fine morning when he least expected, and take him off to his cousin Davy Jones’s locker, and from this time he had such a wholesome fear of the smugglers that he seldom left his den, nor any more interfered in the neighbourhood.

It was not to be thought of that any of the race of those who, a few years later, made the press-gang afraid to show their noses in the west, would allow Justice Jones to continue to act oppressively. It was about this time that upwards of four score men from St. Just, and scores from other western parishes, volunteered to man the Nymph, and went off in crowds to their Captain Pellew (whether he wanted them or no, they wouldn’t leave his ship, unless some few of them were to go a privateering, when he couldn’t tell what to do with all his Cornish crew.) But this is a matter of history, that all know or ought to know: above all, how he would never suffer any of his Cornish crew to be flogged, and, if old men’s tales are true, he allowed them such licence, when not in action, as the martinets of the service would now think very irregular.

We will now start for town in good earnest, as we don’t know what fine doings may be going on there this week, besides the wrestling-match on the Western Green, where the best gentlemen [145]in the land do not disdain to try a hitch with the poorest labouring man—not for the value of the prize, but for the honour of proving their manliness. There is also to be a grand hurling-match on the Eastern Green between Ludgvan hurlers4 and any two other parishes who have a mind to accept the challenge. There we shall see all the gentry from the eastward, who no more think themselves degraded by joining the commontry, in the ancient manly game, than a real old squire’s lady would think it unbecoming to ply the spinning-wheel in the ancient hall, surrounded by her maidens at the same work. So now we bid good morrow to the hearty old folks of the Land’s End, and hope we shall have a pleasant journey to Penzance.

No people in the West Country had ever yet dreamed of such things as gigs, or any other wheel conveyance to take them to fair or market: so we must either go on foot, or jog into town on horseback. If your horse will carry double, you may be honoured with the company of a lady on a pillion behind you. If possible, decline the favour, unless the lass is young and fair; for to take one who wishes to pass for a maiden lady of a certain age is often as great a punishment as was ever invented in Purgatory, for the time. But if you cannot decently get rid of Miss Priscilla, or Aunt Jenefer, pray the Lord grant you an extra dose of patience.

First, before mounting Dobbin, you must have a handkerchief fastened round your middle for her to grasp with her long bony fins, because she does not think it decorous forsooth to put her arm round your waist and hug you comfortably, like a less-affected girl might, to steady herself on a rough road: with such a one we can jog along as happy as Darby and Joan. Fasten the handkerchief with a bow-knot, and if Priscilla gets too tormenting you can slip the knot and let her tumble off in going up hill.

As soon as Dobbin begins to trot she will be working her bony knuckles into your ribs: when she wants to take snuff or perform any other never-ending fidgety movements, the arm will be slipped inside the nackan, as far as her bony sharp elbow, which will be bored into the small of your back like a spit. [146]

The lanes, in many places, are more like rocky water-courses than roads, and so narrow that a horse and panniers can scarcely pass between the high furzy hedges, and so uneven that one must be constantly on the look out to keep the nag from stumbling. However, you will be kept pretty straight and steady, with the dame pulling on the handkerchief behind, and the hard-mouthed horse dragging on the bridle in front (to get his head the nearer the ground, the better to see where he may tumble down without cutting his knees), till the girths give away. Dobbin gives a grunt, and down you tumble, heels over head, in going down some such rocky lane as that which crossed Trelew hill a short time ago. Ten to one but in the tumble you will be under. There is not the least danger of the lady being hurt, because with the protection of her cork-rump and the long stays of leather and steel, wood and whalebone, in which she is encased, the old girl is as safe from harm as a lobster in its shell, or a warrior in his coat of mail.

Her first concern will be to see if the cordial bottle of brandy-and-cloves is safe and sound among all the things in her knapsack of a pocket; then, if her pattens or clogs are fast and firm to the bow of her pillion.

The horse has long kicked himself clear of all the trappings, and galloped off toward home: yet take it easy, sit ye down and drain the bottle until you have sucked out the last drop. But hearken! There is a regular drove of market-women, you may know by their clatter, coming down the hill. Get up quick do, and shake yourselves straight, before they arrive, for you don’t know what a story the old dames will make of it before they leave the butter-market; above all, they delight to overhaul such a precise piece of prudery as Miss Priscilla, who, by pretending to be shocked into “high strikes” at what are most innocent things to the simple, shows as plain as a pike-staff that something bad is always uppermost in her thoughts.

The runaway horse is caught and brought back, by some of the market folks; the girths mended with a piece of rope-yarn; and from the rock at the bottom of the hill you mount again. The worst of the road being passed, you will get on like fighting cocks, and tune your pipes for the new song of

[147]

The tender Priscilla will treat you to some such touching ballad as—

[148]

If that does not bring the briny tears, she will try another doleful sentimental ditty that was very fashionable in her time—

Then you may both join in singing the innocent old song of—

By the time you have got throughout this you will have arrived in town, and be safely landed at the “Duke of Cumberland” public-house, which is one of the oldest, and was one of the most respectable, hostels in Penzance.

Those who walked to town always found near the narrow lanes a pleasant foot-path, which often cut off the corners and shortened the route. In other places, where the road passed between the lands, which formerly belonged to different proprietors, or when the adjoining land was enclosed for different farms, broad pieces of ground were left by ancient proprietors for the purpose of the king’s highway, that, when one horse-track was worn impracticable, others might be found in better condition, at the same time affording plenty of pleasant greensward for the foot-passenger and poor man’s cow. Almost all these broad green lanes have now been stolen from the public, by the greedy proprietors of adjoining farms, who had no more right than you or I to the ground which was open to the Queen’s highway. A few years ago, many such pleasant green glades might be found in the road from Penzance to Hayle; as, for example, where Canon’s town now stands was one of those old broad highways which belonged to the public, and which the public should have kept, as well as many other strips of greensward, that the weary, worn, and footsore traveller might find some verdant spot whereon to repose his feet and eyes.

These old green lanes were altogether distinct from the commons through which a highway might pass. There are some portions,—few and far between,—yet remaining of these old highways, to which the foot passenger turns with pleasure, to get out of the way of the wheels and dust.

About four score years ago, there was no wheel-carriage for the high-road West of Trereife. On some of the farms, there were [149]werries, with three solid wheels (druchars.) These things, between wheel-barrow and cart, were used for bringing home the turf from the moors, taking out manure on level ground, &c. Corn, hay and furze were carried in trusses on horse-back; but horses, furnished with pack-saddles, dung-pots, or crooks, were then generally used for conveying almost everything we now see on some sort of wheel-carriage. Ox-butts and wains were in use long before carts became common. One end of the axle was fast in the wheel, and the axle was made to work in gudgeons under the butt or wain. For building the many large mansions about in the West, the timber had to be dogged from Market-jew, or floated to some of the Coves near the building site. Slate, lime, laths, &c., were all borne on the poor horses’ backs.

I have often heard that the first coach, or chariot, as the old Noah’s arks on slings or springs were called, was the old machine still at Trewinnard, which was constructed to take out the old Hawkins’ in great state, if not in a state of comfort. The Hawkins’ lived in such grand style at the time their chariot was set up (so that everything might be in keeping with the grandeur of their land-ship) that they very much impoverished themselves, and their descendants were consequently obliged to live with such economy as appeared mean for persons of their rank, which gave rise to the lines about Trewinnard:—

When the ladies and gentlemen of Trewinnard drove out in their chariot, accompanied by a cavalcade of belles and beaux, with hawk and hound, they must have thought themselves as grand and glorious as the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon, till stuck fast in a hole, or jolted out in the mud, when the half-a-dozen or more men by whom they were attended, with poles and ropes, picks, spades, and led horses, contrived to set them in motion again, at about the rate of three miles an hour, at least where the roads were the best.

Many farmers’ wives and daughters would now think it too fatiguing to ride on horseback ten miles or more with the marketing in all sorts of weather. Yet I remember that the inconvenience was little felt half a century ago; on the contrary, old and young looked with pleasure for the market-day to come round—the young folks especially, large parties of whom would always contrive to meet together in rain or shine, and race along the lanes to the tune of “the devil take the hindmost,” often jumping over hedges and [150]ditches, to try the springing qualities of their horses, or galloping off to fair, “three on a horse,” as is still proverbial for Morvah fair.

Then old folks would often stop to have a chat with people working in the fields, or with the smiling women looking out of the open doors of their wayside cottages for the accustomed gossip of the market-day, when they hail their cronies with something like “Alight, and come in, my dear; how glad I am to see ’e looking so well. Fasten your horse to the crook in the wall close by the heaping-stock, and we will soon have something warm to drink.” Then they would soon have a merry chat, and often coursey for an hour or two. The dear old souls were never in such a violent hurry as we all seem to be in now: they didn’t care whether they had to return by daylight or dark night.

Many used to go to Penzance every Thursday more for the sake of hearing the news than on any business of importance. Besides, it was a welcome relief from the wearying monotonous life at the Land’s End and other remote, lonely places.

It seems to me that the market was more like a fair then, from the crowd of people in the street, than the fair is like a market now. Perhaps it is only a fancy; or the reason of the more crowded appearance of the streets might be owing to the various markets being more concentrated fifty years ago. So many alterations and improvements have taken place during the last half century that there are scarcely any indications remaining to show what Penzance was in the days of our grandfathers.

Yet, fortunately, Dr. Davy has given us a graphic description of the town and country as it existed about the year 1780. “Cornwall,” the doctor observes, “was then without roads. Those which traversed the country were rather bridle-paths than carriage roads; carriages were almost unknown, and even carts were very little used. I have heard my mother relate that when she was a girl there was only one cart in the town of Penzance, and, if a carriage occasionally appeared in the streets, it attracted universal attention. Pack-horses were then in general use for conveying merchandise, and the prevailing manner of travelling was on horseback at that period, the luxuries of furniture and living now enjoyed by people of the middle class were confined almost entirely to the great and wealthy, and in Penzance, where the population was about two thousand persons, there was only one carpet. The floors of the rooms were sprinkled over with sea-sand, and there was not a single silver fork. The only newspaper which then circulated in the West of England was the ‘Sherbourne Mercury,’ and it was carried through the country, [151]not by the post but by a man on horseback specially employed in distributing it. In the year 1761, the turnpike road only reached as far as Falmouth. At that period the Land’s End district must have been a sort of unknown land.”