Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines Part 28

"Indeed! but are they not untrained men, liable to teach erroneous doctrine?" asked Mr Clearemout.

"They are not altogether untrained men," replied Mr Donnithorne. "They are subjected to a searching examination, and must give full proof of their Christianity, knowledge, and ability before being appointed."

"And good, excellent Christian men many of them are," observed Mrs Donnithorne, with much fervour.

"Quite true," said her husband. "This James Penrose is one of our best local preachers, and sometimes officiates in our princ.i.p.al chapel. I confess, however, that those who have the management of this matter are not always very judicious in their appointments. Some of our young men are sorely tempted to show off their acquirements, and preach _themselves_ instead of the gospel, and there are one or two whom I could mention whose hearts are all right, but whose brains are so muddled and empty that they are utterly unfit to teach their fellows.

We must not, however, look for perfection in this world, Mr Clearemout.

A little chaff will always remain among the wheat. There is no system without some imperfection, and I am convinced that upon the whole our system of appointing local preachers is a first-rate one. At all events it works well, which is one of the best proofs of its excellence."

"Perhaps so," said Mr Clearemout, with the air of a man who did not choose to express an opinion on the subject; "nevertheless I had rather have a man who was _not_ a local preacher."

"You can see and hear him, and judge for yourself," said Mr Donnithorne; "for he is, I believe, to preach in our chapel to-morrow, and if you will accept of a seat in our pew it will afford my wife and myself much--"

"Thank you," interrupted Mr Clearemout; "I shall be very glad to take advantage of your kind offer. Service, you say, begins at--"

"Ten precisely," said Mr Donnithorne.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

SHOWS THE MINER IN HIS SUNDAY GARB, AND ASTONISHES CLEAREMOUT, BESIDES RELATING SOME INCIDENTS OF AN ACCIDENT.

The sun rose bright and hot on Sunday morning, but the little birds were up before the great luminary, singing their morning hymn with noisy delight. It was a peaceful day. The wind was at rest and the sea was calm. In the ancient town of St. Just it was peculiarly peaceful, for the numerous and untiring "stamps"--which all the week had continued their clang and clatter, morning, noon, and night, without intermission--found rest on that hallowed day, and the great engines ceased to bow their ma.s.sive heads, with the exception of those that worked the pumps. Even these, however, were required to do as little work as was compatible with the due drainage of the mines, and as their huge pulsations were intermittent--few and far between--they did not succeed in disturbing the universal serenity of the morning.

If there are in this country men who, more than any other, need repose, we should say they are the miners of Cornwall, for their week's work is exhausting far beyond that of most other labourers in the kingdom.

Perhaps the herculean men employed in malleable-iron works toil as severely, but, besides the cheering consciousness of being well paid for their labour, these men exert their powers in the midst of sunlight and fresh air, while the miners toil in bad air, and get little pay in hard times. Sunday is indeed to them the Sabbath-day--it is literally what that word signifies, a day of much-required rest for body, soul, and spirit.

Pity that the good old word which G.o.d gave us is not more universally used among Christians! Would it not have been better that the translation Rest-day had been adopted, so that even ignorant men might have understood its true signification, than that we should have saddled it with a heathen name, to be an apple of discord in all generations?

However, Sunday it is, so Sunday it will stand, we suppose, as long as the world lasts. After all, despite its faulty origin, that word is invested with old and hallowed a.s.sociations in the minds of many, so we enter our protest against the folly of our forefathers very humbly, beseeching those who are p.r.o.ne to become nettled on this subject to excuse our audacity!

Well, as we have said, the Sunday morning to which we refer was peaceful; so would have been Maggot's household had Maggot's youngest baby never been born; but, having been born, that robust cherub a.s.serted his right to freedom of action more violently than ever did the most rabid Radical or tyrannical Tory. He "swarmed" about the house, and kicked and yelled his uttermost, to the great distress of poor little Grace, whose anxiety to get him ready for chapel was gradually becoming feverish. But baby Maggot had as much objection to go to chapel as his wicked father, who was at that time enjoying a pipe on the cliffs, and intended to leave his family to the escort of David Trevarrow.

Fortunately, baby gave in about half-past nine, so that little Grace had him washed and dressed, and on his way to chapel in pretty good time, all things considered.

No one who entered the Wesleyan Chapel of St. Just that morning for the first time could have imagined that a large proportion of the well-dressed people who filled the pews were miners and balmaidens.

Some of the latter were elegantly, we might almost say gorgeously, attired, insomuch that, but for their hands and speech, they might almost have pa.s.sed for ladies of fas.h.i.+on. The very latest thing in bonnets, and the newest mantles, were to be seen on their pretty heads and shapely shoulders.

As we have said before, and now repeat, this circ.u.mstance arose from the frequency of the visits of the individual styled "Johnny Fortnight,"

whose great aim and end in life is to supply miners, chiefly the females among them, with the necessaries, and unnecessaries, of wearing apparel.

When the managing director entered Mr Donnithorne's pew and sat down beside his buxom hostess, he felt, but of course was much too well bred to express astonishment; for his host had told him that a large number of the people who attended the chapel were miners, and for a time he failed to see any of the cla.s.s whom he had hitherto been accustomed to a.s.sociate with rusty-red and torn garbs, and dirty hands and faces. But he soon observed that many of the stalwart, serious-looking men with black coats and white linen, had strong, muscular hands, with hard-looking knuckles, which, in some instances, exhibited old or recent cuts and bruises.

It was a new sight for the managing director to behold the large and apparently well-off families filing into the pews, for, to say truth, Mr Clearemout was not much in the habit of attending church, and he had never before entered a Methodist chapel. He watched with much curiosity the gradual filling of the seats, and the grave, quiet demeanour of the people. Especially interesting was it when Maggot's family came in and sat down, with the baby Maggot in charge of little Grace. Mr Clearemout had met Maggot, and had seen his family; but interest gave place to astonishment when Mrs Penrose walked into the church, backed by her sixteen children, the eldest males among whom were miners, and the eldest females tin-dressers, while the little males and females aspired to be miners and tin-dressers in the course of time.

"That's Penrose's family," whispered Mr Donnithorne to his guest.

"What! the local's family?"

Mr Donnithorne nodded.

Soon after, a tall, gentlemanly man ascended the pulpit.

The managing director was disappointed. He had come there to hear a miner preach, and behold, a clergyman!

"Who is he?" inquired Clearemout.

But Mr Donnithorne did not answer. He was looking up the hymn for Mrs D, who, being short-sighted, claimed exemption from the duty of "looking up" anything. Besides, he was a kind, good man at heart--though rather fond of smuggling and given to the bottle, according to Oliver Trembath's account of him--and liked to pay his wife little attentions.

But there were still greater novelties in store for the London man that morning. It was new to him to hear John Wesley's beautiful hymns sung to equally beautiful tunes, which were not, however, unfamiliar to his ear, and sung with a degree of fervour that quite drowned his own voice, powerful and deep though it was. It was a new and impressive thing to hear the thrilling, earnest tones of the preacher as he offered up an eloquent extempore prayer--to the pet.i.tions in which many of the people in the congregation gave utterance at times to startlingly fervent and loud responses--not in set phraseology, but in words that were called forth by the nature of each pet.i.tion, such as "Glory to G.o.d," "Amen,"

"Thanks be to Him"--showing that the wors.h.i.+ppers followed and sympathised with their spokesman, thus making his prayer their own. But the newest thing of all was to hear the preacher deliver an eloquent, earnest, able, and well-digested sermon, without book or note, in the same natural tone of voice with which a man might address his fellow in the street--a style of address which riveted the attention of the hearers, induced them to expect that he had really something important to say to them, and that he thoroughly believed in the truth of what he said.

"A powerful man," observed the managing director as they went out; "your clergyman, I suppose?"

"No, sir," replied Mr Donnithorne with a chuckle, "our minister is preaching elsewhere to-day. That was James Penrose."

"What! the miner?" exclaimed Clearemout in astonishment.

"Ay, the local preacher too."

"Why, the man spoke like Demosthenes, and quoted Bacon, Locke, Milton, and I know not whom all--you amaze me," said Mr Clearemout. "Surely all your local preachers are not equal to this one."

"Alas, no! some of the young ones are indeed able enough to spout poetry and quote old authors, and too fond they are of doing so; nevertheless, as I have said to you before, most of the local preachers are sober-minded, sterling Christian men, and a few of them have eminent capabilities. Had Penrose been a younger man, he would probably have entered the ministry, but being above forty, with an uncommonly large family, he thinks it his duty to remain as he is, and do as much good as he can."

"But surely he might find employment better suited to his talents?" said Clearemout.

"There is not much scope in St. Just," replied Mr Donnithorne, with a smile, "and it is a serious thing for a man in his circ.u.mstances to change his abode and vocation. No, no, I think he is right to remain a miner."

"Well, I confess that I admire his talents," returned Clearemout, "but I still think that an ordinary miner would suit me better."

"Well, I know of one who will suit you admirably. He is common enough to look at, and if you will accompany me into the mine to-morrow I'll introduce you to him. I'm not fond of descending the ladders nowadays, though I could do it very well when a youth, but as the man I speak of works in one of the levels near the surface, I'll be glad to go down with you, and Captain Dan shall lead us."

True to his word, the old gentleman met Mr Clearemout the following morning at nine o'clock, and accompanied him down into the mine.

Their descent was unmarked by anything particular at first. They wore the usual suit of underground clothing, and each carried a lighted candle attached to his hat. After descending about thirty fathoms they left the main shaft and traversed the windings of a level until they came to a place where the sound of voices and hammers indicated that the miners were working. In a few seconds they reached the end of the level.

Here two men were "driving" the level, and another--a very tall, powerful man--was standing in a hole driven up slanting-ways into the roof, and cutting the rock above his head. His att.i.tude and aspect were extremely picturesque, standing as he did on a raised platform with his legs firmly planted, his muscular arms raised above him to cut the rock overhead, and the candle so placed as to cause his figure to appear almost black and unnaturally gigantic.

"Stay a minute, Captain Dan," said Mr Donnithorne. "That, Mr Clearemout, is the man I spoke of--what think you of his personal appearance?"

Clearemout did not reply for a few minutes, but stood silently watching the man as he continued to wield his heavy hammer with powerful strokes--delivering each with a species of gasp which indicated not exhaustion, but the stern vigour with which it was given.

"He'll do," said Clearemout in a decided tone.

"Hallo! James," shouted Mr Donnithorne.

"Hallo! sir," answered the man looking back over his shoulder.

"There's a gentleman here who wants to speak to you."