Chapter VII: Part 7

The silent proceedings were altogether new to us, because we had often gone to other Wishing Wells with parties of young folks who always kept noise and fun enough; yet the old dame regarded the proceedings as a very solemn matter.

In answer to the questions of “What was the reason for going round the Well nine times? leaving the bits of rags? following the sun?” &c.; it was always the same reply, “Such were the old customs, and everybody knew it was unlucky to go, or to do anything, against the course of the sun; no woman, who knew anything, would place pans of milk in the dairy, so as to have to unream them against the sun.”

MADRON CHAPEL.

By following down the brooklet from the Well, in a minute’s space we came to the Chapel. In the southern wall may be noticed an opening for letting the water from the Well-brook flow into a baptistry in the South-western corner of the Chapel. Entering by a door-way, on the northern side of the Chapel, we see that this simple font appears to have been arched over, after the manner of the bee-hive huts, by one row of stones projecting over the other. The table-slab of the altar (which still remains at the east end) has a square pit, worked in the centre to mark the place on which an image, or the monstrance, was probably placed. There is a step to mark the division between the little nave and the sacrarium, and remains of the stone seats which were carried all round against the walls. A rare and beautiful little plant, the Cornish Money-wort, may be found among stones beside the Well-brook.

LANYON QUOIT.

We return to the highway, and continuing on the Morvah road, pass a broken cross, which once served to direct the pilgrim to the Holy Well and shrine, or to the Templar’s roof. A little farther on, a church-way path through fields makes a short cut across the hill; from the road at the foot of this hill, on the Lanyon side, one gets the most striking, though not the first view of the Quoit. From this low ground, the mass of rock (more than eighteen feet long and nine abroad) is seen looming against the sky like a gigantic tripod. When near it, we find that its height from the ground is only from five to six feet; yet Dr. Borlase says, that in his time it was high enough for a man to sit under it on horseback.

In 1816, the cap-stone of the cromlech was thrown down by a violent storm, and a large piece of one supporting stone broken off. In 1824, after the Logan Rock was replaced, the powerful machinery brought into the country for that purpose, was used for raising the Quoit; and, preparatory to replacing it, the other two uprights were sunk several feet. One may speculate on the means first employed to raise the ponderous mass, which has been beaten by the storms of more than twice ten hundred years. Few can view “this lonely monument of times that were” without joining in the prayer of the following beautiful lines:—

* * * “Let no rude hand remove,
Or spoil thee; for the spot is consecrate
To thee, and thou to it; and as the heart
Aching with thoughts of human littleness
Asks, without hope of knowing, whose the strength
That poised thee here.”

It does not seem likely to be soon decided whether these weird-looking monuments on our silent hills were giants’ altars, kist veans, or the tombs of giants who have left the marks of their footsteps on all our granite cairns and hills. Our mythic giants may not be altogether fabulous, and it seems beyond dispute that gigantic remains have been found under cromlechs when first denuded of the barrows with which many, perhaps all, were formerly covered.

Another idea, in connection with them, may be suggested by what we have farther to state. A Cornish gentleman, [18] who resided many years in various parts of India, and to whom we are grateful for much exact and curious information on various antiquarian subjects, informs us that he has, in many remote parts of India (where the most ancient and simple forms of Hindooism prevail), seen huge monuments of unhewn stone so like some of our cromlechs in their construction, that they always reminded him of our giants’ quoits, and his distant home on the Cornish hills. He says that in the granite districts, they were precisely similar in plan to our cromlechs; and in the slate districts the slabs were thinner and the construction more regular.

In all, an opening was left on one side. Between the supporting stones and within the recesses of these rude structures sacred lamps were always kept burning. The priesthood, who attended these sacred fires, were so much opposed to Christians coming near their sacred places, that the gentleman referred to had no means of ascertaining whether these Hindoo cromlechs were regarded as altars, tombs, or shrines. They might have been all three combined, as it has been usual, in all times, for the sacredotal hierarchy of all gloomy creeds to make the most of the bones of the dead to impress the minds of the living with awe for the unearthly mystery with which they ever aim to invest priestly functions. At last, by the gloomy creeds and rites of these mysterious religions, they make a personification of death their deity.

We must leave it for our learned antiquaries to decide whether this huge Quoit was a giant’s tomb, or anything else which was ever applied to any mortal use, except to make us feel that the ancient Cornish who could raise such ponderous masses, high enough for a man to sit under on horseback, were no despicable race.

LANYON TOWN PLACE AND HOUSE.

As we proceed on the Morvah road toward Lanyon, the rugged top of Carn Galva is seen rising over the northern hills. The first sight of this huge carn, piled up against the sky, suggests the thought that the good old giant who lived there in ancient times could not have selected a better place for his stronghold. We now approach the town-place of Lanyon, Lanion, or rather Lanine, for every one here calls the place by the latter name, as well as the family, who probably took their name from this, their ancient home. If you enquire of any person hereabouts for Lanyon, they will wonder where you came from, and it is not at all easy for a stranger to get any information out of our good folk by abrupt questioning, which they detest. The best way is to tell them frankly what you want. Then, they will do their utmost to gratify your wishes. So now we are here, we shall always speak of the place as Lanine, and tell a yarn to get two in return.

Many fanciful meanings have been given for the name of Lanyon or Lenine; yet there appears to be little doubt that the name is a contraction of Lanython, which is composed of Lan, an enclosure, and Ython, or Eithin, furze (the adjective comes after the noun in Cornish); or the name may be simply the plural form of Lan. This word Lan (often contracted into la) enters into the construction of many names of ancient places, as Landithy, Lamoran, Lamorna, &c. In Wales and Brittany, names are equally common, which are formed of Llan or lan, followed by some qualifying word; and as some of the oldest settlements or enclosures were the first places in which Churches were erected, the word Lan came to be regarded as designating the Church. In Lamorna and other similar words the n is dropped, from a natural disposition to avoid the exertion which the pronunciation of certain combinations of consonants entails on the speaker. The strongly-built dwelling-house of Lenine shows that Madron masons of the last century were good craftsmen. Note the sturdy strength of the broad chimney-stacks, which seem determined to put a hard face on all the fierce blasts they encounter in this unsheltered place. The sturdy expression of this simple building harmonises well with the bleak character of surrounding scenery.

THE CRICK-STONE.

Another noteworthy object, on this site of ancient enclosures, is the remarkable group of three stones called by antiquaries the men-an-tol, and by country folk the crick-stone, from the old custom (not yet extinct) of “craming” (crawling on all fours) round the centre stone, and of creeping through the hole in the same (when the person was thin enough) for the cure of lumbago, sciatic, and other “cricks” and pains in the back.

This mysterious monument is situated in a croft to the right of the Morvah road, about half-a-mile in a northerly direction from Lenine town-place. Our antiquaries are as much at variance with respect to the purpose for which this remarkable group was erected as they are about the real purpose of the cromlech. Some hold that it is a sepulchral monument, as well as the Men Scryfa (written stone) farther on, because there is a tradition that in Gendhal, or Gednhal moor, a little below, there was once a battle so great that the moor “ran with blood.” Others suppose it to have been used for some druidical ceremonies similar to those not long since practised there; and by a great number it is conjectured that this mysterious monument served for the computation of time. Among those who think that the object of its erection was probably astronomical is Professor Max Müller. This gentleman, in the Quarterly Review for August, 1867, after stating that the three stones are in a line bearing nearly east and west, says:—

“This men-an-tol may be an old dial, erected originally to fix the proper time for the celebration of the autumnal equinox, and, though it may have been applied to other purposes likewise, such as the curing of children by dragging them several times through the hole, still its original intention may have been astronomical.”

In another place, after speaking of the Mên-heers, or long stones (which, being mostly found in pairs bearing nearly east and west, he thinks served the same purpose), he continues:—

“If their astronomical character could once be firmly established, it might even be possible, at least approximately, to fix the time of their erection. If we suppose that the shadow of the stones on each side of the men-an-tol was intended to fall through the hole on the day of the autumnal equinox, then, if there is any slight deviation at present, and that deviation in the direction demanded by the precession of the equinoctial, points of difference might be calculated, and translated into years, and we should thus be enabled to fix, at least with a margin of a century or two, the time when that time piece was first set up on the high plains of Cornwall.”

In concluding his notice of the Holed-stone of Lanine, he says:—

“A mere shepherd, though he had never heard the name of astronomy, might have erected such a stone for his own convenience, in order to know the time when he might safely bring his flocks out, or take them back to their safer stables. But this would in no way diminish the interest of the men-an-tol. It would still remain one of the few relics of the childhood of our race; one of the witnesses of the earliest workings of the human mind in its struggle against, and in its alliance with, the powers of nature; one of the vestiges in the first civilization of the British Isles.”

Less than half-a-mile over the downs, in a northerly direction, brings us to the

MEN SCRYFA (WRITTEN STONE.)

The safest plan for a stranger to take, in order to find this interesting monument, is to return to, and proceed on, the Morvah road until nearly opposite Bosullow, where a path will be found, on the right hand, leading to this ancient inscribed pillar, which is one of the most important monuments in the west country, if not in the kingdom. One side of the stone will be found inscribed with the words Rialobran-Cunoval Fil, signifying that Rialobran, the son of Cunoval, was here buried. The tradition of the country folks says that a king slain in the battle of Gendhal moor, was buried here with all his arms and treasures; and that the king stood nine feet high, which was found to be the length of this pillar monument, when about half a century ago an old curmudgeon of the neighbourhood upset the tombstone of Rialobran, the son of Cunoval, in searching for the crock of gold, which he, in common with many others, believed to be buried there. It is not known whether he found any treasures by his digging, but he caused the stone to fall face downward, in which position it remained, little heeded, until 1862, when it was replaced by the Antiquarian Society over the warrior’s grave.

A large tract of ground covered with furze and heath, surrounding this monument, used to be called “Goon-men-scryfa” (inscribed stone downs.)

THE FOUR PARISHES.

At a short distance to the northward of Men-scryfa, there is a large flat stone, with a cross cut on it, to show that the four parishes of Madron, Gulval, Morvah, and Zennor meet there. There is a tradition that some Saxon kings dined on this stone in days of yore.

According to another tradition, when Prince Arthur and four British kings were on their way to drive the Danes from Penwith, they rested on this rock.

Then, on their way down along towards the Land’s End, Prince Arthur and the four kings collected the native Cornish, who fought the Danes, and under guidance of the royal personages, conquered them, in the battle of Vellan-drucchar (wheel-mill) moor; where the Danes were nearly all killed, and so great was the slaughter, that “the mill was worked with blood,” so old folk said.

From Goon-men-scryfa, the bold and curious pile of Carn Galva (goats’ carn) is a very striking object in the view, standing out as it does near the sea, and six hundred feet or more above the sea level.

From Men-scryfa, we take a northerly course, over the downs, to Carn Galva.

One can’t fail to pass a pleasant time, should the weather be fine, among the rocks and glades of Carn Galva. Above all, if we ramble hither through the ferns, heath, and furze, in the whortleberry season, we may pick the rich fruit, roll in the shade, or bask in the sun, on the beautiful green patches of turf, as soft as velvet, to be found everywhere; or one may ramble in and out, and all around, playing hide-and-seek, through the crellas between the carns, whence the good old Giant of the Carn often sallied forth to protect his Morvah and Zennor people and their cattle against the incursions of the giants of other carns and hills. Those of Trink and Trecrobben were the most troublesome, because they lived near in castles strong and high.

Now they say that when the Trecrobben giant once got the cattle, or tin, into his stronghold, he would defy all other giants in the country. By the traditions, still preserved in Morvah and its neighbourhood,

THE GIANT OF CARN GALVA

was more playful than warlike. Though the old works of the giant now stand desolate, we may still see, or get up and rock ourselves upon, the logan-stone which this dear old giant placed on the most westerly carn of the range, that he might log himself to sleep when he saw the sun dip into the waves and sea-birds fly to their homes in the cleeves. Near the giant’s rocking-seat, one may still see a pile of cubical rocks, which are almost as regular and shapely now as when the giant used to amuse himself in building them up, and kicking them down again, for exercise or play, when alone and he had nothing else to do. People of the northern hills have always had a loving regard for the memory of this giant, because he appears to have passed all his life at the carn in single blessedness, merely to protect his beloved people of Morvah and Zennor from the depredations of the less honest Titans who then dwelt on Lelant hills. Carn Galva giant never killed but one of the Morvah people in his life, and that happened all through loving play.

The giant was very fond of a fine young fellow, of Choone, who used to take a turn over to the Carn, every now and then, just to see how the old giant was getting on, to cheer him up a bit, play a game of bob, or anything else to help him pass his lonely time away. One afternoon the giant was so well pleased with the good play they had together, that when the young fellow of Choone threw down his quoit to go away home, the giant, in a good-natured way, tapped his playfellow on the head with the tips of his fingers. At the same time he said, “Be sure to come again to-morrow, my son, and we will have a capital game of bob.” Before the word “bob” was well out of the giant’s mouth, the young man dropped at his feet. The giant’s fingers had gone right through his playmate’s skull. When, at last, the giant became sensible of the damage he had done to the young man’s brain-pan, he did his best to put the inside workings of his mate’s head to rights and plugged up his finger-holes, but all to no purpose; for the young man was stone dead and cold, long before he ceased doctoring his head.

When the poor giant found it was all over with his playmate, he took the body in his arms, and, sitting down on a large square rock at the foot of the carn, he rocked himself to and fro; pressing the lifeless body to his bosom, he wailed and moaned over him, bellowing and crying louder than the booming billows breaking on the rocks in Permoina.

“Oh, my son, my son, why didn’t they make the shell of thy noddle stronger? A es as plum (soft) as a pie-crust, dough-baked, and made too thin by the half! How shall I ever pass my time without thee to play bob and mop-and-heede? (hide-and-seek.)”

The Giant of Carn Galva never rejoiced any more, but, in seven years or so, he pined away and died of a broken heart.

So Zennor people say, and that one may judge of the size of their giant very well, as he placed his logan-rock at such a height that, when seated on it, to rock himself, he could rest his feet comfortably on the green turf below.

Some say that he gathered together the heap of square blocks, near his favourite resting-place, that he might have them at hand to defend his people against the giants of Trecrobben and Trink, with whom he fought many a hard battle. Yet when they were all on good terms they would pass weeks on a stretch in playing together, and the quoits which served them to play bob, as well as the rocks they hurled at each other when vexed, may still be seen scattered all over this hilly region.

Surely a grateful remembrance of this respectable giant will ever be preserved by the descendants of those he protected in the northern hills.

We have often heard the high country folks relate this legend of their giant in a much more circumstantial manner than we can attempt, because we do not, like the good Morvah folk, give implicit credence to all the traditions of Carn Galva. Yet this romantic region makes us feel that

“Surely there is a hidden power that reigns
Mid the lone majesty of untamed nature,
Controlling sober reason.”

DING-DONG, WHEAL MALKIN, AND PUSSER HOSKING’S MOILS.

On our return from Carn Galva we may visit Ding-Dong. The works of Ding-Dong both “at grass” and under ground, are very near our road to Carn Galva, and much of the former visible nearly all the way from Men-scryfa. It is one of the most ancient and extensive mines in the County. There are traditions (if not more trustworthy records) that part of this old bal, called by a somewhat similar name (Din-an-doyng, if I remember rightly), and other ancient workings known as Wheal Malkin, which are now united to Ding-Dong, were wrought by the Jews in the time of King John.

Little more than half a century ago, Wheal Malkin portion of this rich old mine was solely in the hands of four or five adventurers. All of them, but one, held large shares in Ding-Dong. They wished the two speculations to be united, as they might, it was thought, be thus worked to greater advantage. But Mr. Hosking, of Lanyon, the only one of the owners of Wheal Malkin who had no share in Ding-Dong, being averse to this arrangement, his co-adventurers proposed that he should either sell his share, or buy theirs. Mr. Hosking became the purchaser of the whole of Wheal Malkin. Some say that a device, sometimes resorted to in similar transactions, was put in practice by a working miner, to induce him to close with the dear bargain. However that may have been, it is well known that he continued to work this property more to benefit the public than himself.

This worthy gentleman was generally known as Captain Hosking, from having been for many years captain of the Mount’s Bay Yeomanry Cavalry, or the Guides, as they were often styled, but his most popular designation in the part we are now rambling over was the Pusser (purser) Hosking; and this latter title seems likely to be long preserved, as well as some remembrance of the “Pusser’s” moils, in one of our odd every-day sayings.

After Mr. Hosking built the sturdy-looking house we still see in Lenine, he resided there for some years, and held the farm in hand. For the purpose of taking his tin to smelting house, the captain kept a great number of mules (here called moils) on the extensive furze-grounds of Lanyon. Some of the tinners, in passing over the downs, to and from their work, often tried to get a ride on the “Pusser’s moils” and others, for fun’s sake or out of pure wantonness, took great pleasure in tormenting these sedate-looking animals; but the Pusser’s moils, to show how they disapproved of practical joking, often imprinted the marks of their hoofs and teeth on their tormentors; and, at last, they, one and all, took to give chase to every person who ventured on their ground, except, indeed, the boys who brought them out straw or hay, now and then, in winter, and their well-known driver, Mr. Hosking’s Ralfey, who was as fond of the moils, and they of him, as if they had been brothers.

If one only pointed a finger, in derision, at these testy animals, and called them by their names, in a tone which they didn’t like, when they were filing along the lanes with sacks of tin on their backs, they would at once leave their ranks and show fight in spite of all Ralfey could do to soothe them. From these mulish traits of inordinate self-esteem and combativeness in Mr. Hosking’s cattle originated the common saying, often applied to a teasy person, “He’s like Pusser Hosking’s moils—waant bear jestan.”

Near Ding-Dong there are some ancient barrows, and the remains of what is supposed to have been a Druidic circle called the Nine Maidens.

THE PENZANCE OF OUR GRANDFATHERS.

THE OLD MARKET-HOUSE AND ITS SURROUNDINGS—BATTLE OF ARCHITECTURAL STYLES—THE SELF-TAUGHT ARCHITECT OF THE LAND’S END—BUSTLE OF A MARKET DAY—MADAM TREZILLIAN’S HEAD-DRESS—THE ANCIENT FISH-WOMEN OF PENZANCE—NEW MANSIONS IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD—THE SCHOOLDAYS AND HOME OF PELLEW—THE WESTERN APPROACH TO PENZANCE (ALVERTON LANE)—PARSON SPRY, THE CURATE OF SENNEN AND ST. LEVAN, HALF-A-CENTURY AGO, AND HIS WOODEN HORSE AND DOG “SPORT”—“SPORT’S” BEHAVIOUR AT CHURCH AND IN CHURCHYARD—THE REV. JAMES BEVAN—COUNTRY CLERKS AND COUNTRY CHOIRS—OLD CHRISTMAS CAROLS—ANCIENT MODE OF CONDUCTING FUNERALS—FORMER MEANS OF INFORMATION AMONG THE PEOPLE—ASTROLOGERS OF THE WEST—CONJURORS AND THEIR SPELLS—OLD JUSTICE JONES AND CHEAP LABOUR—THE VINGOES OF TREVILLE—THE JUSTICE’S PUNISHMENT—PELLEW AND HIS CORNISH CREW—THE ANCIENT GAMES OF HURLING AND WRESTLING—OLD METHODS OF CONVEYANCE—RIDING PILLION—POPULAR SONGS OF THE TIME, MALBROOK, AND SENTIMENTAL DITTIES—GREEN LANES AND FOOTPATHS—PACK-SADDLES, OX-BUTTS, AND THE FIRST CARRIAGE—GOING TO TOWN ON MARKET-DAY—PENZANCE IN THE EARLY PART OF THIS CENTURY, &c.—Written September, 1867.

Dim, dream-like forms! Your shadowy train
Around me gathers once again,
The same as in life’s morning hour,
Before my troubled gaze you pass’d:
Oh! this time shall I have the power—
Shall I essay to hold you fast?

—Goethe’s Faust, Filmore’s Translation.

THE OLD MARKET-HOUSE, AND ITS SURROUNDINGS.

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 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 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.

THE BATTLE OF ARCHITECTURAL STYLES.

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.

THE SELF-TAUGHT ARCHITECT OF THE LAND’S END.

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 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.

THE BUSTLE OF A MARKET DAY.

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. 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.

MADAM TREZILLIAN’S HEAD-DRESS.

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.

THE ANCIENT FISH-WOMEN OF PENZANCE.

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.

THE SCHOOL-DAYS AND HOME OF PELLEW.

Near the Alverton entrance to Fox’s gardens is an old thatched cottage [19] 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 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; 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.

THE WESTERN APPROACH TO PENZANCE (ALVERTON LANE.)

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.

PARSON SPRY, THE CURATE OF SENNEN AND ST. LEVAN, HALF A CENTURY AGO, AND HIS WOODEN HORSE AND DOG “SPORT.”

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 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 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 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.

“SPORT’S” BEHAVIOUR AT CHURCH AND IN CHURCHYARD.

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.