Читать книгу Cornish Saints & Sinners - J. Henry Harris - Страница 3
Chapter I
ОглавлениеWe were three.
Guy Moore, who had scraped through his "final," and eaten his call dinner, and talked sometimes of full-bottomed wigs and woolsacks.
George Milner, surnamed the "Bookworm."
Myself.
It was an old arrangement between Guy and myself to go somewhere as soon as the Long Vacation commenced, and the Bookworm, a relation of Guy's, was included on account of his health. The doctor told him that if he did not take a timely rest now he'd never read all the books in the British Museum library, which he had set himself to do before going to Paris to read there, and then some other place, and so on. Bookworms are like that. Our mutual friend was an earnest young man, and had the reader's look about the eyes; and when he went to bed he read unknown books in his sleep. The doctor said, "Get him away—plenty of air, plenty of walking, no books."
We met in Guy's chambers, and talked Cornwall; but the trouble was with the Bookworm, who wanted to take a truck-load of books with him.
We decided on going to Penzance, and then rambling just where we would. A visit to the land of a lost language attracted the Bookworm, who at once added a few score books to be read on the spot.
Guy was appointed guardian of the common purse, and empowered to make all arrangements.
The books were left behind.
A splendid day in August we had for our run westward. The Bookworm had a corner, and by-and-by the spirit of wonder crept over him as he looked at the blue skies and the green grass. There was a world outside of books, after all.
"Here's the briny! Out with your head, man, and suck it all in; it's the wine of life," shouted Guy.
Up went all the blinds, and down went all the windows, and every one who could gazed upon the blue sea shoaling into green with white-flaked edging on the frizzling sands. It is the custom to pay this homage to the sea for being good enough to be just where it is, between Starcross and Teignmouth. Right and left, the Bookworm saw heads thrust out and faces in ecstasy, as though the whole human freight of the flying train was in rapt adoration. White handkerchiefs waved, and the pure voices of children trilled spontaneous anthems whenever the vexatious tunnels permitted them to gaze upon old England's symbol of power and freedom. It was a new experience to the Bookworm, and it surprised him that anything not printed and stitched and bound should stir so much emotion. It was Nature's book in red sandstone and blue sea illuminated by the sun, on which his tired eyes rested for a few moments; he felt refreshed by the mere vision, his pulses throbbing with new sensations. And when the vision passed in the broad valley of the Teign, he asked simply—
"Is there more of this?"
"Plenty," said Guy, promptly.
According to Guy's account, we were to have just whatever we liked, when we liked, and where we liked. Seascape and moorscape, hill and vale, sailing and fishing, riding and driving, and golfing, and all that sort of thing. And then there were certain mysterious regions where we were to find tracks of the fairies, and come across odds and ends of things, and people too. We were not to have any guide-books; he insisted on that. What was the good of guide-books to fellows on their rambles? Who cared how many yards he was from anywhere, or how many miles it was from one place to another? All that was worth remembering could be picked up on the spot, and then there wouldn't be any danger of everything running into one blurred outline of travel, just as happened to a fellow after tramping for weeks through picture-galleries and curio-shops, and all that sort of thing. Guy said he knew a fellow who did the whole county most thoroughly guide-book in hand. He started from Bude, and did the north coast; and then he turned around and did the south coast. He scored his guide-book like a chart of navigation, and his marginal notes played leap-frog all over the show. When he got to Plymouth he lost the precious book, and if it wasn't for railway labels and hotel bills, he wouldn't have known where he'd been.
A commercial man, having totted up his accounts, seemed greatly interested in Guy's remarks, and glided into the conversation. He told us he hadn't had a holiday for thirty years, and never expected another in this life. He became quite confidential, and gave us his views about happiness in the world to come. He never intended going "on the road" again for a living in the next world, he said, if there were any telephones about. He didn't like telephones when the boss was always at the other end.
We ran through the apple country, and the commercial man said these orchards were simply nothing to be compared with those a few miles away, where the real Devon cider was made. He told some funny stories about cider and its makers—the way in which sweet cider was discovered, and the hand that Old Nick had in the matter.
"It's a short story," said he, good-naturedly. "Old John Bowden had the finest orchard land in South Devon, and it appears that in the olden times the land was the property of Tavistock Abbey, and the good Fathers used to come over every season to make cider and have a frolic. Sometimes the good old cider, being no respecter of persons, got into the good Fathers' heads. Now, you must know that the best of cider is a trifle sharp to the palate—the natives call it 'rough'—and the Fathers were in the habit of toning some rare good stuff, reserved for high days and holidays, in empty wine-casks. One season, the wine-casks falling short, the Abbot of Tavistock drew up a sort of prize competition, like the magazines do now, offering something tasty to the inventor of a process for making 'rough' cider sweet without the use of wine, which, I suppose, worked out expensive, and, moreover, encouraged more drinking than was allowed under the tippling act. I must now tell you that, for a very long time, things hadn't gone on smoothly between the monks of Tavistock Abbey and Old Nick, who was constantly prowling about the premises, picking up little bits of information, and making the good Fathers uncomfortable. Well, he chanced upon this prize competition notice on an old door covered over with cast horse-shoes and vermin nailed up for 'good luck' and to keep his satanic majesty off the premises. However, there he was, and read the notice.
FATHER JOHN AND THE CIDER.
"A very obliging little old man turned up at the orchards one season, and offered his services, and was taken in to do odd jobs about the pound-house, and as he wasn't particular about his bed, he was allowed to curl himself up in one of the big empty cider-casks. In truth, after the work was over for the day, the good Fathers had other fish to fry, and thought no more about him; but the strange workman was most busy when he was supposed to be sound asleep.
"Of all the Fathers of the Abbey, Brother John was the keenest on winning the prize for turning 'rough' cider into sweet, and he spent hours in the pound-house alone, spoiling good stuff, without getting one foot forrarder. 'Dang my old buttons!' said he, after another failure.
"It wasn't so much the language as the temper of Brother John which attracted the notice of the little old man who slept in the cask, and he whispered something which made the good brother turn pale and tremble in his shoes. He was not above temptation, it is true, but he was a brave man for all that, and dissimulated so well that the stranger was so off his guard as to sleep in his cask and leave one of his cloven feet sticking out of the bung-hole. Brother John bided his time and covered the bung-hole, and then arranged for such a flow of cider into the cask upon the sleeping stranger as to settle his hash, unless it was the very old Nick himself. Old Nick it was, and when he awoke to the situation he was so hot with passion that the cider bubbled in the cask, and he disappeared, leaving the strongest of strong smell of brimstone behind. Brother John kept the secret to himself, not knowing what might come of it; but when he tasted the cider his eyes sparkled, for it was as sweet as honey, and when sweet cider was wanted at the Abbey, he used to pour it 'rough' upon the fumes of burning sulphur, and, lo and behold! it became sweet. It was Old Nick who gave away the secret to Brother John, who was smart enough to learn it. A Devon man calls sweet cider 'matched,' on account of its connection with old Brimstone."
"Did Brother John patent the process?" asked Guy.
"No, he didn't, though Old Nick tempted him; but Brother John was too wide awake to have his fingers burnt by patent lawyers and their agents."
"Is that story in print?" asked the Bookworm, preparing to make a note for future reference.
"I should say not. It's just one of those trifles you pick up on the road. Plenty about when Old Nick is concerned. They say his majesty didn't cross the Tamar in olden days; or, if he did, then he hopped back again in double-quick time. That may be, but he's a season ticket-holder now, and has good lodgings, and I ought to know, for I do business all through the country," said the man of samples, stepping out of the carriage.
"A trifle rough on us lawyers," said Guy. "Poor beggar has suffered, I suppose."
Across the bridge, and we are in the land of pasties and cream—the land of a lost language, of legend and romance, where the old seems new and the new seems old, and the breath of life everywhere.
Penzance.