My Patient the Quarryman.
I had a very pleasant visit once to Cornwall where a resident practitioner who was an old friend asked me to come down and take his practice for a couple of months.
This I did, and thoroughly enjoyed Cornwall and the common people with their sing-song, intonation, and genuine honest simple ways. During my leisure, I used to fish for mackerel and a dozen other wholesome fish that, freshly cooked, were delicious at the table. Then I had many a pleasant boating trip along the coast, the last being in company with a very intelligent workman whom I had had to attend for a bad bruise on one arm, caused by the falling over against it of a huge block of granite in the yard of the works where he was employed.
Ezra Hanson was never tired of showing me the interesting bits of the rugged shore if he could get me out with him for guide, and whenever I had time, nothing pleased me better than placing myself in his care either for a scramble amongst the rocks, picking up specimens, or out in a boat skirting the shore.
I was out with him one day in the neighbourhood of the Lizard when he gave me a very interesting account of an accident that befel him, and I give it here nearly in his own words.
“We were out in a little boat rising and falling upon the heaving tide under the shadow of the mighty cliffs that bound the shore, looking awfully forbidding to a ship on a stormy night when the sea is covered with foam; and as I sat almost awe stricken at the grandeur of the scene, and the beauty of the sky reflections in the water, he began to run on picturing all he could to me in the most vivid way, as he illustrated it so to speak by pointing out the locality as it lay before me dotted with lichen and the sea birds that made their homes upon the shelves of the massive racks.
“‘Look sir,’ he said, pointing as we landed, ‘see what a change there is in the colour. Now we come to the serpentine. That last black jagged rock you learned people call trap or basalt, sir; and this, that we come to now, serpentine. We have it here in great variety as to colour; but mostly it is of a deep blood-red, or a dark green, with white veins of steatite or soapstone running through it. That yonder’s the quarry where I work. And now I’ll show you the spot where I fell from; and when we get on to that point which runs out towards those rocks—there, where the water is all silvery foam—I can show you again the mouth of the cave; for it’s almost underneath our feet now; while here—you see this chink, just as if the rock had been split at some time—you could lower yourself down through it, and get into the cave; but I never yet saw a man bold enough to do it. I came up it, and that was enough for me. Now, listen at the roaring of the sea as it runs up the cave. It’s all dark below there, or you might see the water rushing, and bubbling, and foaming in. Perhaps you’re strong-nerved, and can stand it—I can’t. It makes me shudder.’
“Five years ago I came down here as foreman, for we were busy at that time quarrying this serpentine rock for ornamental masonry; and my duty then was to investigate a bit here and there along the face of the rock for good veins of the stone. What we want, you see, are richly-marked, showy pieces that will out and polish well; some being firm and good, but when quarried out not having the requisite qualities for our work. Many a time I’ve been all along the face of this precipice, climbing from ledge to ledge, holding on to a rope fastened round my waist, and chipping the rock here and there. Now I’d swing ever so far to reach a vein, then I’d be lowered down, then drawn up; for I always took care to have three stout and true men up above at the end of the rope; while, for further security, they’d drive a strong pin into the rock round which to twist the rope.
“Fine veins I’ve marked down, too, at different times; and, from being used to the work, our men will go on chipping and working away as coolly as can be when the waves come thundering in, and then, striking the face of the rock, fly up in a storm of spray, while the noise is deafening. Of course they can’t do that when the wind reaches them; but when sheltered they’ll take no more notice of the waves than if they were so much smooth grass just beneath them, instead of perhaps a hundred feet below.
“Now, lie down here, and crawl just up to the edge and look over. There, that’s a fine sight, isn’t it? There’s no fear, for you can’t fall, even if you turn giddy. Now, you might drop a plumb-line from here right into those silvery breakers just beneath us, and the length of that line would be two hundred and thirty feet. Fine sight this, isn’t it? There’s the Lizard, with its lights; there to the left’s Black’s Head; and in front of you, rock after rock fighting against the long rolling waves that never cease their attacks, but as one is broken and falls back into the ocean in hundreds of little waterfalls, another comes tearing in to try and wear down the rock. When the sea is very calm, even from this height you may look down into the beautiful clear water and see the rocks beneath, covered in places where they are sheltered by richly-coloured seaweeds. But now watch carefully where I drop this big piece of rock. There’s a ledge down there, about a hundred feet above the sea—a spot where I stood twice: the first time by daylight, with a rope round my body; the second time by moonlight, and without the rope. Now watch, and when the stone strikes it will be on the shelf I mean; for I think I can hit the spot, though, looking down, one ledge is so confused with the other that I don’t think I could point it out so that you could understand. Mind, too, when the stone splits up into pieces, and you will see the birds fly out in all directions.