For three months my wife and I stayed in the town of Saint Just, close to the Land’s End, during which time I visited some of the principal mines in Cornwall; associated with the managers, “captains,” and miners, and tried my best to become acquainted with the circumstances of the people.
The Cornish tin trade is very old. In times so remote that historical light is dim, the Phoenicians came in their galleys to trade with the men of Cornwall for tin.
Herodotus, (writing 450 years B.C.) mentions the tin islands of Britain under the name of the Cassiterides and Diodorus Siculus, (writing about half a century B.C.), says:
“The inhabitants of that extremity of Britain which is called Bolerion, excel in hospitality, and also, by their intercourse with foreign merchants, they are civilised in their mode of life. These prepare the tin, working very skilfully the earth which produces it.”
There is said to be ground for believing that Cornish tin was used in the construction of the temple of Jerusalem. At the present time the men of Cornwall are to be found toiling, as did their forefathers in the days of old, deep down in the bowels of the earth—and even out under the bed of the sea—in quest of tin.
“Tin, Copper, and Fish” is one of the standing toasts in Cornwall, and in these three words lie the head, backbone, and tail of the county, the sources of its wealth, and the objects of its energies.
As my visit, however, was paid chiefly for the purpose of investigating the mines, I will not touch on fish here. Having obtained introduction to the managers of Botallack—the most famous of the Cornish Mines—I was led through miles of subterranean tunnels and to depths profound, by the obliging, amiable, and anecdotal Captain Jan—one of the “Captains” or overseers of the mine.
He was quite an original, this Captain Jan; a man who knew the forty miles of underground workings in Botallack as well, I suppose, as a postman knows his beat; a man who dived into the bowels of the earth with the vigour and confidence of a mole and the simple-minded serenity of a seraph.
The land at this part of Cornwall is not picturesque, except at the sea-cliffs, which rise somewhere about three hundred feet sheer out of deep water, where there is usually no strip of beach to break the rush of the great Atlantic billows that grind the rocks incessantly.
The most prominent objects elsewhere are masses of débris; huge pieces of worn-out machinery; tall chimneys and old engine-houses, with big ungainly beams, or “bobs,” projecting from them. These “bobs” are attached to pumps which work continually to keep the mines dry. They move up and down very slowly, with a pause between each stroke, as if they were seriously considering whether it was worth while continuing the dreary work any longer, and could not make up their minds on the point. Their slow motions, however, give evidence of life and toil below the surface. Other “bobs” standing idle tell of disappointed hopes and broken fortunes. There are not a few such landmarks at the Land’s End—stern monitors, warning wild and wicked speculators to beware.