The Warp and Woof of Cornish Life and Character ... Collated from The Mining Post and Cornishman. Author's copyright edition

Front matter

THE WARP AND WOOF OF CORNISH LIFE AND CHARACTER, BY OPEN EYES (MRS. C. P. PENBERTHY). Collated from the Mining Post and Comishman- AUTHOR'S COPYRIGHT EDITION. " The web of our life is of mingled yarn, good and ill together." — Shakespeare. Xon.on : IDEAL PUBLISHING UNION, LIMITED, 33, Paternoster Row, E.C. ; Plymouth : George H. Sellick, The "Bedford" Library. DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR FATHER, NICHOLAS ODGERS, OF REDRUTH. "The sweet remembrance of the just Shall flourish when he sleeps in dust." " Weave the warp, and weave the woof." — Gray. " The vicarious principle is shot through and through the whole vast web of Nature." — Drummond. " My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle." — Job. " My life is but a weaving Between my God and me : I may but choose the colour He weaveth steadily. " Full oft He weaveth sorrow, And I in bitter pride Forget He sees the upper Eut I the under side." — Hanan. CONTENTS. PAGE

Preface

. Cornish vernacular differs widely in various localities, almost every division in the county affording fresh curiosities of dialect. The gloss ology of the following sketches pertains to Mid- Cornwall, and will be familiar to all who know the mining centres, with their adjacent villages. Although relating chiefly to years that have long rolled by, these tales are founded upon fact, and may reveal somewhat of the daily life of the lower middle classes, than whom none are happier. Of late, there have not been lacking traducers of Cornish folk. Depreciation and defamation can only be the poisoned arrows of those who know not Cornish men and women. To under stand the Cornish character is to admire and love it. Far abler pens have enriched literature with volumes written about the sturdy, self-denying Preface. lives of Cornubia's heroes and heroines.

But although much has been written of their clannish ness, their independence of thought and action, their honest faithfulness, their warm-heartedness, — a subtle something remains that can never be transmitted to paper. For the spirit of a Cor nishman is impregnated with the ozone of his beloved Atlantic, and is as free as his wind swept hills. From toil he wins his spirit's light, From busy day the peaceful night ; Rich from the very want of wealth, In Heaven's best treasures — peace and health. THE WARP & WOOF OF CORNISH LIFE AND CHARACTER

Chapter I

"TO SAVE SUSAN." " Oh, native Cornwall ! throned upon the hills, Thy moorland pathways worn by angel feet, Thy streams that march in music to the sea." Long years ago when turnpike gates hindered the progress of drivers, and paying toll, gave many a horse chance to breathe, a widow kept the gate of M . This widow was energetic as may be believed when I say that she bore fifteen children, and reared twelve of them. Of the twelve, two girls were twins, called respectively Susan and Lizzie. Except in age no likeness existed, for Susan was vain, gay, and proud to an overbearing degree, while Lizzie grew into a gaunt, prosaic, hard featured woman domineering over every unlucky creature that crossed her path. In time Susan wearied of the tiny turnpike house with its crowd of noisy children, wearied of the nagging mother and cross-grained twin, and deter mined to run away.

Selecting a busy day, when E her mother was confined to bed, Susan tied up her bundle, walked to the nearest station, and took train for Truro. Not that Truro was her final goal — nothing less than Plymouth sufficed for the inflated notions of this romantic maiden. To western folk, Plymouth is the centre of life and gaiety. For a few hours' enjoyment of its sights, men and women walk weary miles to catch an excursion, returning late at night with happy reminiscences of " something like London." There fore to Plymouth Susan must go, but as yet she had no money. By taking a situation in Truro for a few weeks she would earn sufficient to free her to Millbay, so she was added to that interminable list of domestics, who seek situations to suit their own convenience, and quit again directly they secure a pound or two.

A month later found Susan in the Three Towns, where she enlisted as a "help" to the overworked landlady of a cheap lodging-house. Upstairs, downstairs, then upstairs again, carrying heavy trays, with only a few moments to rest in a greasy, foul kitchen — such was life. Outside, wrangling women sitting on the door steps, dirty children haggling over crusts from the gutter, coarse men slouching to and from the docks : — indoors, incessant work, small pay, nauseous smells, and never a kind word. Susan would some times lean her throbing head against the door, and long for the fragrance of new-mown hay, or the perfume of sweetbriar. One day a lady passed carrying a bunch of creamy roses, and Susan turned her head to hide a tear. Contact with low people demoralised the woman until she became an inebriate, and was ultimately arrested for being " drunk and disorderly."

Meanwhile, Lizzie had also left home for the avowed purpose of finding Susan and " ordering her back again." By dint of close questioning, she traced Susan to Plymouth, but could not find her home. In a quiet side street Lizzie hired one room, established her few belongings there, and spent her days tramping the streets in a vain quest for the rosy cheeks and curly hair of the prodigal. One morning as Lizzie passed the corner of Bedford Street she saw a knot of dowdy women, standing with arms akimbo. The viragoes were a httle way down Whimple Street and obstructed the pavement, talking and gesticulating wildly. Impelled by curiosity Lizzie approached within earshot, and gathered that a trial was about to begin in the police-court, also that prisoner deserved scant pity. For lack of better occupation Lizzie followed the crowd and entered the stifling court.

The novelty of her position prevented her looking at the prisoner for some moments, but when she looked at the dock — there was Susan. Nervously clutching her umbrella, Lizzie stayed herself while showers of stars fell around her, but presently the faintness passed and she listened to the old, old story of drunken rowdyism and subsequent arrest. Imprisonment for one month without option of a fine, was the sentence, and immediately the prisoner was escorted out, that another depraved wretch might stand on trial. Lizzie pressed forward to speak to her sister, and was horrified to find that Susan did not seem abashed at her presence, but simply craved — snuff. " May I bring a bit of snuff to her to-morrow ? " said Lizzie to the friendly policeman. " No, nothing in that way, missus," retorted he.

Lizzie slipped a shilling into his palm, but said nothing more. Next day she appeared at the cell with a small package of snuff ensconsed in her umbrella, and Susan showed more delight over the vile stuff than at the visit of her sister. Said she, with a leer : — " I'll flatten it out in the paper and braid it into my hair — my hair is so thick that nobody will find out." In those days, vigilance was a more elastic affair than it now is, and Susan enjoyed many a surrep titious sniff of Taddy's best. What to do with her sister when the month expired, Lizzie knew not. She broached several schemes, but Susan tossed her head, and into her dark eyes crept a sinister gleam. At last Lizzie took counsel with a lady missioner, whose work amongst female prisoners was a blessing to hundreds. Between them they arranged to meet Susan directly she emerged from her cell, take her to a coffee shop, give her a savoury meal, and put her back to Cornwall by the afternoon train.

The Biblewoman recognised the futility of taking Susan to her old home, as nothing but angry mortification would ensue. Therefore she secured two rooms in a respectable house just outside Truro, where nothing could remind the recreant of her former life. More than this, she secured promises of work for both the sisters, from ladies who needed charing and needle work. For a few weeks after the Biblewoman's departure, Lizzie and Susan worked unremittingly, and were able to secure for themselves many small luxuries. Lizzie wrote her mother to say all was well, but did not add that she and Susan would never agree. Like most perfectly virtuous women, Lizzie was a trifle Pharasaical, and she never lost an opportunity of launching into a diatribe against tipplers " and such like." One day Lizzie was supposed to perform a day's work in Lemon Street, while Susan was engaged to wash at a house near the railway-station.

At seven o'clock they were to meet for tea, and then go for a walk along Malpas Road. Lizzie reached home in good time, and thinking Susan would be weary, she covered in the bed, cleaned two knives, spread their humble meal, and sat down to rest. Half -past seven — eight — nine o'clock came, but no Susan. With dread forebodings Lizzie donned her hat and jacket, and sped to the house of Susan's employer. In reply to her agitated enquiries, a servant said that Susan had "worked like a dragon," and had gone off about two o'clock. With weary step and ghastly face Lizzie dragged herself into the station and inquired of the porters if her sister had gone by train. " Yes," a woman answering to her description had taken the Ply mouth train and was gone many hours. Homeward again went Lizzie, but this time she passed swiftly into her bedroom and opened a small japanned box that stood on the tiny toilet table.

Just as she feared — money all gone. A few hard earned shillings that had been put aside for a rainy day, were coolly robbed, and poor Lizzie had nothing more than the eighteenpence paid her for that day's work. With a dazed look, she put away the supper things, and prepared to go to bed. Upon her pillow lay a note in miserable handwriting : — " Wen you get this ere I shall be gon to Ply mouth. I loves that plaace, tes jolly, down here edden so lively, you no need cum see for me no more, I'll git on right nuff, so mind yourself, good bye. Susan." Not a word of acknowledgment for Lizzie's weary search and patient toil. Nothing but sheer thank lessness, and undisciplined restlessness. Working hard for a few days, Lizzie managed to pay her rent, and presently she was again en route for Plymouth, impelled by an overpowering desire to find and protect Susan.

It was nothing to this grim woman, that her own life was running to waste, that she denied herself the comforts of home ; every other consideration was swallowed in the patient longing to " save Susan." Back to her old Plymouth quarters she went, hoping to secure her former room. But new people had taken the house, and Lizzie felt more than usually lonely as she ascended the creaking stairs and dropped her bundle upon the dirty floor. Her landlady, taking pity upon the sad-visaged stranger, brought up a cup of tea and entered into a chat. Never a word did this faithful Cornishwoman utter about the truant, but she asked if her landlady could procure knitting or sewing from any respect able families. " Can you do up shirts and collars ? " was the reply. " Why yes — I love ironing," said Lizzie, " Right you be— us do know 'bout half-a-dozen gents what do want their shirts and things done up fine— they'll kep ee goin, so cheer up, this yere room '11 jest do, and I'll lend ee ironing-box for a while."

Thus for the second time did Lizzie settle her self in Plymouth, and for the second time began her ceaseless quest for the wayward one. Her home letters simply said that both Susan and she were again in Plymouth, and would someone please send a few flowers to cheer them up a bit ? Poor tired soul ! Her own heart ached for a sight of the old garden, and she craved a whiff of the aroma of thyme and lavender. Twenty years have passed, and Lizzie is a grey haired woman with many wrinkles, and a stoop of the shoulders. She still lives in the upper room, and she still scans every face — but Susan is not found. Sometimes when the rain and sleet fall with stinging force, and the pavements are almost deserted, a lonely old woman may be seen plodding along, stopping only at the doors of gin palaces and low inns.

As the doors swing open and victims emerge, this old woman gazes hungrily at the in mates and mutters " not there." And on the morrow her quest will begin again.

Chapter II. Grace Penglaazes Tale

" When she is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old soul do but die ? " " Do 'ee knaw anything 'bout Falmouth at all, acause if you doant tedden not a bit o' use tryin' to tell 'ee ? You must see Falmouth to knaw what tes like. I'm purty and sure there edden 'nother sich plaace to be found. " But never mind, tedden much odds whether you do knaw the plaace or the people ; what I'm now goin' to tell 'ee es so true as I'm here standin'. " I had a mother once, poor dear sawl, she's dead an gone now theuse thirty eers, iss, lev me see, if she had a' lived till laast Ma'almas twelvemonths she'd a ben fifty-four eers owld. Well I was goin' to say, as how I got married to a man that mother dedden like, but I wud have un, I wudden give un up ; there edden a Cornishwoman worth her salt that would thraw owur a youngster like my Jim was in they days.

Poor deer man, he's dead an gone too, that ever I shud live to say that, for he was so fine a man to hes age as ever stapped in shoe leather. But I'm goin' afore my story, ma'am ; what I was goin' to tell 'ee vvas this ere, — after Jim an me was settled down up Plymouth way, I put mother in a club, and paid so much a week for her. Cause I never spoke to mother no more arter I left home for Jim, she said to me, says she, " ' As you maake yer bed, so yer must lie in un, Graace,' an I up an said, " ' Well I can do that too mother,' and then she cursed me to my face, and ill-wished me in the bargain, and tes a fact ma'am, I aint had nawthin thouse bad speed never sence. Well this ere money was paid in the club due and true, till I heerd as how my deer owld mother was dead and gone, and died in the Union too if you plaise.

Then cum a letter from some great man er 'nother sayin as how he must knaw if I was Graace Penglaaze or no. " I got a friend to write back to say iss I was Grace Penglaaze ; and by return of post down cum 'nother letter to say as how my uncle, mother's own brother, had made out I was dead or gone abroad, and he would take up the club money that was due in mother's naame. Wadden I maazed ? I could tear his eyes out if I could awnly catch un that minute, for I hadent the graace of God back in they days. Jim was gone to sea, and wudden be home again for a good three months, so I couldent axe he nawthin. " Well, here's off," says I, so I gov my bird and cat to a neighbour, and I took the next steamer down Falmouth. Oh, I shall never forgit that trip, the owld boat cudden go fast nuff, and there was I traapsin up and down like a maazed woman. 'Twas like this ere, I knawed my uncle could afford to bury my poor mother dacent, an' if he done that, and then cadged the trifle o' club money, I wouldent mind, but to carr sich sails as he was carrin, and lev hes awnly sister be haled away in a Union box, well I cudden clunk that !

" At laast I got down Falmouth, and went to see a owld friend o' mine down there by Market Strand, 'twas back afore they big shops was put up, so I doant spose you could find the owld house if you was to hy. I knawed Missus Treseder could help me out, acause her man was in the police force, he and my Jim went to school together when they wadden no higher than the taable. So I towld un, thas Maister Treseder, all my story, and he harked a bit and then he said, " Do 'ee knaw you could have yer uncle took up, if you awnly had paapers to shaw that he railly had that money by maaking out you vvas dead, or lost." " Aren't I itching to have un took up ? " says I, " and I'll stop one day or one month raather than lev un slip, and look here, if you and yer missus can give me a bed I would so soon, and raather pay you, than I'd go to a lodgin' house."

" Well, we settled pon that, and while this police man was getting at the inns and outs of the job, I went around axing 'bout mother, and if she left any thing behind or no. What I heerd 'bout she I'll tell 'ee reckly, but oh ma'am no tongue caan't tell what I went through they few days, 'twas like a thing goin' agen my awn flesh and blood, and yet I had that longing for revenge that I was in one burnin fever from mornin till night, and night till mornin agen. At laast, one day Treseder shawed me the paapers he had from up the country, and he had the warrant and all, so he said, " Now think what you'm 'bout, 'cause yer uncle is a braave big man down here, and he got a lot o' men onder un, and 'twill be a hard job to taake un right away from his work, he's boss ower the whole lot too." " So much the better," says I, " if he was there weth five hundred I'd go in and expose un, thas zackly what I'm longinto do, an owld bite, ridin and drivin 'bout the town, and then left his awn sister die in the House !

Come long, lev us be off." Sure nuff, off we went, two policemen, Missus Treseder, an me. I said to the men, " Stop outside the door plaise till I've had my say to un " ; then in I went, and found un afore a great desk so big as a house, and men and boys comin to he for orders like as if he was king of the country. " Good mornin, ma'am," says he. " Good mornin, or bad mornin to you, uncle," says I, " I doant spose you knaw me now you're a great man, but I'm Graace Penglaze, I'm yer sister's daughter, that one thas dead, or gone lost." I tell 'ee ma'am, you shud a seed he turn colours, he was red, white and blue all in one minute. " And now I'm come to knaw whas become of the club money that was put away in mother's name, thas to cum to me now she's dead — who got it, eh ? Uncle dropt his pen, and said " Hush, my workmen are all here, I'll maake that hi affair right now I knaw you're alive."

" Come in, come in ! " I shouted. In come the policemen and had a few words with un, and towld un he had to cum long weth they. You shud see un, that cut his pride and no mistaake. He looked ten eers older in a minute. " Caant this be settled here 'tween ourselves ? " says he. " No," I said, " revenge is sweet, and tes part of my morsel to see you put out of theuse works 'tween policemen. I'll fight it out to the bitter end, and lev people knaw what you are. Well, to ma'ake a long story short, the trial cum off, and the owld rogue had to pay costs and everything, so I he'erd ; it ma'ade a poor man of un for 'eers. Ah ! edden it always so, money that edden got straight es bound to burn yer fingers one day. " Well, now bout mother, I heerd as how the bed tie and pillows, she died pon, poor sawl, was up High Street in a pawn shop.

So me and Missus Treseder went and axed to see sum bed-ties. At last, sure nuff, there was the very tie, I knawed un in a minute, I shud knaw un anywhere, 'cause eers and eers afore, one day I mended the tick for mother, and I darned the hole with worsterd, and twas blue, dark blue worsterd, and twas five strans thick. So when I se'ed the darn and the blue worsterd so good as new, I bought un up to once. Then me and Policeman Treseder and hes wife went up to the Union, awnly he stopped just outside the big door. First we seed the porter, and I towld he that I wanted to spaike to Martha Morrish what had charge of the owld wumen. By and bye out she come, so pert as you plaise. Now 'twas 'greed 'tween we two that Missus Treseder shud do the talking, and I shud stan a better chance to heer the truth.

She said : " I'm cum to axe bout the owld Missus L , she died here a few months agone." " Aw, well, what'ee want knaw bout she, she never had no friends." " But dedden she lev no message nor nawthin for her friends ? " " No bleve, I was purty and glad when she aised her feet, for she was a passal of trouble." " Dedden she have no rela'ashuns ? " " She ded say once as how she had two maidens, Fanny, she's gone to 'Merica, and Gra'ace, she married sum sailor chap, and went up Plymouth way to live, but she carried off the bed-tie from onder her mother." " You doant main say — what did the owld sawl die 'pon un ? " " Oh ! pon the sackin — tedden nawthing new for em to lie 'pon sackin, doant ma'ake much odds to them when they git to that pass ! " "And doant matter if they got bed sores in the bargain ?

" says I, for I was boilin and cudden stay quiet no longer. " Whas the odds to you, who are you ? " " Well, if you want to knaw who I am, tes Gra'ace L , called Penglaaze by my husband, and I'm the daughter that went to Plymouth, and I'm come here to see for the bed-tie and pillows that my poor owld mother left." Now ma'am, if you can imagine a corpse startin' right up out of a coffin, thas what Martha looked like pon me. " Her mother dedden lev no bed-tie, I tell 'ee," she said, but her teeth was knacking together. " You lie, tes down in the pawn shop this minute, I ben there and se'ed it weth my awn eyes. I he'erd what you done, and I said I would find the tie if I hunted every shop in Fa'mouth fust, and look here, you villan, what ded 'ee shove in my poor owld mother's mouth when she was dyin ! !

I'll have 'ee up afore the magistra'ates if tes only for the world to see whas done by people arter they come to the parish." Then I shouted to Treseder, and in he cum and I towld un to ta'ake up that woman for stealing the tie and pillows — oh ! dedden that wretch foam to the mouth 1 If she could have got at me then, she would tear my sawl out, and I'm sartin I shud do the same to she. " I want to change my frock first," says the owld sinner. " Hurry up then," says Treseder, " go in and re port yourself, and then git ready, awnly I'm cumin with 'ee." Well, what do 'ee think, ma'am, just as I was sayin to Missus Treseder, how long Martha was, I se'ed the wretch cumin with mother's shawl and frock up. I thrawed up my arms, and stamped my foot, and screamed out, " Keep back, doant you cum near me, if you do, an I gits my hand near your throat twill be life for life, mind that, now go back, or I'll be the death of 'ee." 'Pon that Treseder and the porter interfered and she was ma'ade to go back and change.

I fancy she cudden have had no other frock 'cause, the second time, she put up her Union gown. Well, the old hag had four months for that job — and I had my tie and pillows agen. " But I aint quite finished yet, for nawthin wudden plaise me, short of ta'akin my mother up agen, after she had been ten weeks in the pauper's gra'ave. And I had it done, too, and there was scores, iss I'm sa'afe to say, hundreds of people in the gra'aveyard that day to see the sight. Tes 'eers and 'eers agone now, and many billows have rolled ower me sence then, but I seem to see it all now. I bought a purty box for her, dear owld sawl ! — how could I enjoy my few blessings, and my cumforble home, and lev my mother in a Workhouse box ? People laffs at Cornish people, ma'am, but they do love their parents — nobody ca'ant go behind the Cornish for that ; so partly for my own sa'ake, and partly to spite he (my uncle I main), I had mother put from one box to the other one.

There they was, the two boxes side by side, and the deer sun shinin 'pon the both ; one box was so good as to say, 'the owld sawl was neglected and forgot,' but by the side of it was the new one, and that said as how there was friends near by. And then the people stood so quiet as death, while the ondertaker's men opened the plain box, and ever so gentle lifted out the wenden sheet, weth mother in un. I wadden left to go very close ; two men that I was leadin by, they keept me back, but I said out loud : " ' Are 'ee sure tes mother ? ' " ' How shall us knaw ? ' says one. '" Is there rings 'pon her fingers ? ' says I. " ' Iss, there's two ! ' says one man. " ' Bring here the weddin ring, and lev me see ; there's a mark 'pon that one that I shud knaw un all owur the world.' Aw ! shall I ever forgit it — the gra'aves all round, the trees hardly movin, the people spaikin in whispers, while the man cut off the ring ?

At la'ast he cum foath weth it, and sure nuff, I knawed un in a minute. And to this day, ma'am, I got upsteers, in my box, the ring that was took off a dead hand after he ben in the gra'ave ten weeks." c

Chapter III. He Never Thought

" Thoughts shut up — want air And spoil, like bales unopened to the sun." " Evil is wrought by want of thought As well as want of heart." The minister's wife called to see a sick member of her husband's Church. She was particularly inter ested in this visit, for it was in a house where mystery reigned. Upon previous occasions she found the invalid calm, serious, even sad. Mrs. Smythe knew her to be a good wife, and the capable mother of four strong bairns. Comfort reigned in the house, yet the atmosphere was wrong. Whenever both husband and wife were at home, the wife said little ; and when she spoke, she rarely allowed her eyes to alight on her husband. And yet Joseph Grey was a good-looking, educated man, boasting some knowledge of politics, com merce, and Church polity. This respectable man had hosts of friends outside who were always glad to see him, but directly his own threshold was crossed, he became off-handed, cold, absent.

Mrs. Smythe, good old soul that she was, determined to discover the reason of the coolness between the twain. Upon the day in question she found Mrs. Grey lying near the window, looking fragile, but pretty. Her hair was cropped close, and her square, strong face was illumined by a pair of dark eyes. She talked cheerfully to her visitor, but while talking she glanced toward the window and coloured vividly. Following her eye, Mrs. Smythe saw Mr. Grey pass. Entering the room with a whistle and a light step, he cordially greeted the visitor. He inquired after the pastor, talked for a few seconds, and excused himself with never a word to the wife. Mrs. Smythe noticed that the invalid was deathly pale, and her lips quivered. With rare tact, the guest talked of flowers, and proffered a nosegay she had brought.