Part 16

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.