Cornish Saints & Sinners

by J. Henry Harris

In conversation a good deal of ground is covered in a non-committal sort of way by illustrations well understood by the parties, but Greek to any stranger. A worthy person who does mischief with the best intentions is said to be like "Aunt Gracie's vear"—which means that the little pig, with the best intentions in the world, sucked the old sow to death. Few would suspect that "Betsy Bowden's leg" tells a tragedy, but it does:—

"Old age and sorrows did she decay,
And her bad leg carried she away."

To have "Betsy Bowden's leg" is a very serious matter to those who understand what it means.

"It's as well to leave high English at home," said the local doctor, whom Guy picked up in his rambles. "I was asked by a woman on leaving the house of a patient the other day what the matter was? and, in a moment of forgetfulness, I said it was a case of 'strangulated hernia.' 'My dear life!' said the woman, opening her eyes wide, 'that's a very different story to what I heard.' 'And what did you hear?' 'Why, I heard that the man had a kink in his innards.' We meant the same thing; but you must live amongst people really to understand and be understood."

Sometimes a humorous situation is created, and the incident lives. An officer inspecting volunteers wished to dismiss them. "Stand at ease! Attention! Disperse!" The men stood still with wonder in their eyes. "Disperse!" repeated the officer, and still the men stood still. The sergeant saluted. "May I give the order?" "Certainly." Then the sergeant: "Stand at ease! Attention! Scat up!" And every man went his way, and the corps are the "Scat-ups" to this day.

A coastguard told us the story of a young officer of the kid-glove type giving an order to the men in the maintop. "Maintop, ahoy!" "Aye, aye, sir." "Extinguish the illuminator." "No such rope, sir." Then the boatswain: "Maintop, ahoy!" "Aye, aye, sir." "Douse the glim." Light goes out.

A bargain is dear to the soul of a Cornishman; only send round the crier with the bell, announcing a sale, and he'll be there, and pay cheerfully more than the things are worth, if only he's told that he's getting a bargain. To get something for next to nothing is to be happy. A man will walk two miles to ride one, and build his house out of shape rather than remove a bit of rock which can be worked into the wall. Much ingenuity is shown in using up odds and ends of things. A sailor will tell you that any man can make a sail if he has plenty of canvas to cut from, but the man for his money is the man who "makes do what won't do." To throw anything on the scrap-heap as long as there's wear or use in it, would make an average man turn green, and wish for the better land. He's thrifty in the wrong place, and can't help it; but once get him away from home and he develops and does well, as times go. We were told that Bryant, of blacking and match fame, and Pears, of soap fame, are not only Cornish, but hail from neighbouring parishes; and Ralph Allen, the lucky, was born at St. Blazey. Ralph was a man of many parts. He brought some order and method into our country mail services, ran the Bath theatre, married a beautiful wife, and made £16,000 a year out of a Government contract. Once outside the charmed circle of his native land, a Cornishman gets on just as well as a Scotchman, and is as thrifty as need be.

There is an ingrained dislike amongst the Cornish towards mean-looking things, and things ugly or deformed. A well set-up man, with head thrown back defiantly, and arms swinging, is forgiven much on account of his appearance of strength and general can-take-care-of-myselfness. A weak-looking man with a mean face must walk warily if he's to get credit at all for the good that is actually in him. An elegant woman, well-dressed, is immaculate; and a woman with an eye generous and passionate has her sins condoned almost before they are committed. But let a woman squint and be anæmic, short in nose, and long in chin, a bit "hunchy" and out of shape, and goodness becomes an added offence to her sin of living. "A poor, wakely thing," and "a wisht, old-fashioned maid," are offences to the community, and are willingly parted with. Downright ugliness in man or woman is looked on as the devil's hall-mark;—"mark you the man whom nature marks," is a proverb. The first question asked about a stranger is, what does he, or she, look like? A great deal depends on the answer—a good-looking and fair-spoken person may travel far and suffer no hunger in the land. The devil is sin, and sin the father of ugliness, hence an ugly person has the devil for father, and is treated accordingly.

The Cornish are a very hopeful race. Bad times depress, but there is always to-morrow to look forward to, and to-morrow may be better than to-day. Without this bank of hope to draw upon, the two main industries of the county, mining and fishing, would have caved in long, long ago. Contentment is another sign by which you may know the Cornishman at home. If a man meets with misfortune, or a friend has gone under, he sums it all up by saying, "Well, there 'tis." The phrase "there 'tis," is like a plaister of figs covering a sore, hiding much, but giving rise to hope that a healing process may be going on.

"How be gettin' on, Jim, without the ould woman?" asks a man of his fellow who has buried his wife. "Slight, sure 'nuff, at first, but there 'tis;" and then he goes on about his work, as though the last word was said upon the matter. Equally content is another aged pilgrim who has lost the partner of his joys. "Do 'ee miss her, Bill?" "Ess, sure." "Lonely, s'poase?" "Ess, tes lonely, but tes quiet." Bill was content. "When the cyder is rinned away every drap, 'tis too late to be thinkene of plugging the tap," is a little bit of old proverbial philosophy which escaped Martin Tupper. The same spirit is in the words, "Well, there 'tis," whether the cyder cask runs dry, or a mine is "knocked," or a ship is wrecked, or a pitcher is broken. "Well, there 'tis," says the victim, with the beautiful serenity of fatalism. "There 'tis," and hope springs up amongst the ruins of shattered hopes, and the Cornishman goes on his way again, trundling his own wheelbarrow, without appealing to the heavens and the earth and all that therein is to listen to his misfortunes. When he has a stroke of good luck he's very quiet about it.