It was in a straggling village in Surrey on the borders of Sussex that my
mother’s family resided and with them my earliest holidays were spent. An uncle
and two aunts remained unmarried in the old home, which was a low, long cottage
covered with grape vines and with pretty latticed windows, the diamond panes of
which were (as I remember) screened by netted curtains, the work of the two
aunts and more especially of the one whose place was usually on the sofa on
account of an injury to her leg, which originated, as I have heard, in a fall
into the brook, a branch of the river Mole, which ran at the bottom of the
garden, dividing it from the orchard. It was at first thought to be a mere
scratch, but never healed and eventually blood poisoning must have set in which
ended in her death a few years later and when I was about seven years old.
She was the gentle Aunt Harriet who used to read to me out of “Line Upon Line”, a
book of Bible stories simply told which I soon knew by heart, especially the
chapter on Joseph and his brethren which I felt to be my very own, as my
brother’s name was Joseph; my father also had that name. Another chapter I
remember in the same book was “The Ark of the Covenant” and was illustrated by a
picture representing a stormy sunset with great beams of light rayed out from an
oblong box ornamented with winged angels. Even now a sunset with shafts of
watery light brings that picture to my mind.
The sitting-room where we usually
sat was a low room with high chimney-piece enclosing the chimney corner seats
where on a cold day one could sit close by the wood fire on the hearth, the logs
being kept in place by andirons or fire dogs; a large pair of bellows was hung
up in a convenient place and when fresh logs were put on, or the fire burnt low,
were used to blow it again into cheery flames. There were small deep cupboards
on each side of the hearth, where was kept a tinder box and a bundle of wood
sharpened at the ends and dipped into sulphur which would quickly light by the
spark on the tinder made by the flint and steel. These old fashioned articles
had then been not long superseded by lucifer matches.
In the evenings the room
was lighted by tallow candles in tall brass candlesticks and a little oblong
tray of the same held the snuffers used to snuff the wick of the candles when
they burned low. Every bedroom candlestick in those days was made with a hole
for a pair of snuffers as well as an extinguisher, and rush lights were also
used if a light was required during the night.
There were valuable old china
cups and saucers on the high shelf of the chimney, without handles, and as a
great treat I was sometimes allowed to have one down to drink tea from, a most
inconvenient process if the tea had been hot; fortunately they did not get
broken as they were a wedding present to my grandmother, together with a little
round wooden tea tray with a rim which was made, by the addition of spindle
legs, into a little table. On the wall was hung a mirror with bevelled sides so
that you could see yourself in several places at once and it was a great
temptation if the meal lasted too long to tip up your chair and fidget up and
down making all the reflections of yourself move at once at various angles.
There were also samplers with wonderful trees, flowers and animals worked in
silk by my aunts at the tender age of eight and nine years, with all the letters
of the alphabet, a verse of a hymn and the name and age of the little worker.
The old bureau with its dear little drawers and cupboards and shelves was a
source of great delight on a week day, as it contained different coloured beads,
wools and silks used in fancy work and all kinds of treasures such as straws,
sealing wax and wafers of all colours.
Now I must take you into the kitchen
where there was also a hearthstone for the fire and a large brick oven in which
to bake the family bread, cakes and pies. How interesting it was to watch the
oven being heated with faggots, blown by the bellows into crackling flames which
roared and sparkled till there was nothing left but a mass of red hot charcoal.
Then the ashes were raked out and a little piece of dough (already prepared in
the early hours of the morning) was rolled out thin and put into the oven to try
if it were the right heat. In a few minutes it was taken out, buttered and
brought in for lunch, called an oven cake, and very delicious it was as I
remember. The loaves of bread were then moulded and placed on a flat wooden
shovel called a peel and shovelled off into the oven with the cakes and pies,
and the door of the oven was carefully shut till the smaller cakes were cooked;
the bread was left in longer till the oven was quite cool when it was withdrawn
and placed with the other eatables in the cool airy pantry.
In the side hall was kept a basket filled with toys for my especial benefit
whilst I was staying with my aunties. These consisted of wooden tea and dinner
services for the benefit of the little dollies that generally accompanied me on
my visits, a wonderful broom made of pink and white shavings to take up the
crumbs made in the dollies’ feasts, some china dogs and lambs, and various odds
and ends sometimes replenished from the “Fair” which was held on the village
green at I forget what time during the summer months, but the stalls erected for
the sale of toys, cakes and sweets were things to be wondered at and enjoyed for
a limited time before evening came on and the crowds appeared with all the fun
of the fair in which I was not allowed to join. I fancy Mary or Jane had to see
me safely home and then returned to the scene of revelry.
Those beautiful old Surrey commons! How many I can recall driving through with
my uncle when he went on his business calls in the surrounding villages and
districts. There was Ockley Green with its signposts and its pond with the
inevitable geese and donkeys, Reigate Heath with its windmills, hills and
heather, Newdigate where lived old John Capon and his family before the time of
the flood. I do not mean, of course, the Biblical flood but one night when there
came a great storm of rain which filled our brook so rapidly that before the
flood-gates could be raised (which had been lowered for some wool-washing
business which my uncle had on hand) the water overflowed its banks, crept
silently up the garden path into the kitchen, up the passage and up the step
into the sitting-room. What an excitement when the insidious visitor was
discovered! What a search for clogs and pattens and a calling for John and Mary
to open the flood-gates and fetch brooms to sweep out the dirty water and debris
from the house.
This flood was a matter of history so far as I am concerned, but I have been
several times in more intimate relations with that brook than I should care to
be again. The stream ran between the garden and the orchard which were connected
by a narrow plank bridge with a handrail too high to be of much use to a little
person like myself. One day my brother (seven years older than myself) and I
were watching the antics of a large frog hopping along the plank, when splash!
over he jumped into the water. I, stooping to see what had become of him,
overbalanced myself and was engulfed in three or four feet of water. I must have
lost consciousness for I remember nothing till I found myself being undressed
and put into a hot bath, rubbed with nice warm towels and put to bed, and I
believe I was all right the next day. They told me afterwards that my brother
could not reach me at first when I reappeared, but ran and fetched a long pole
and with brave efforts dragged me up the bank by himself, the man being out of
call, and that I went under water three times and they feared I was drowned.
There was a summer-house of lattice and ivy, erected by my mother and her
brother before her marriage, backing on the brook and in front of it a dear
little flower garden tended by Aunt Harriet when she was well, and planted with
violets, hepaticas, polyanthus and quaint old country grape hyacinths and black
scabiens called there “mournful widow”. These little beds were bordered with box
and separated by little paths of sand and the wider borders were planted with
good apples and pears, cherries and cobnuts, a source of great interest at many
seasons; for did we not get a big hamper sent us to town by carrier every autumn
filled with the choicest fruit, some to keep till Christmas and later, some to
eat at once, and was there not sure to be a bough of the very prettiest and
rosiest put in at the top for “Pinkie”, as my uncle used to call me?
Next door to my uncle’s house was a cottage where an old weaver, Mr. Boxall, lived; he had
a large family of thirteen children, several of whom were married, and had also
many olive-branches. The largest room in the house contained a hand-loom and I
was taken to see him weaving a coarse kind of carpet of bright colours. I
thought it very wonderful to see the shuttle flying in and out of the threads of
foundation, which I was told was the woof. When the old man was in his prime he
used to weave the linen sheets and tablecloths from the flax grown and spun by
the farmers and others who owned land.
My grandfather grew a crop of flax on his
land before planting his orchard and we had the sheets which were woven from it
when I was a child, I remember their being marked in blue ingrain cotton in
cross stitch “I. I. D. 1815” I expect by the same little fingers that worked the
samplers, as the eldest would then be twelve years old, having been born in
1803. The initials signified James and Judith Dolby. James Dolby the younger
took up his father’s business of tanner and wool stapler and maker of leggings
and gloves, and there was much to interest a child in watching all the
processes, under the kindly care of J. Holden, the head man, who lived in a
cottage close by called “Sweet Briar Cottage”. His wife used to allow me to go
into her kitchen and watch her make a “Pig meat pudden” which was put into a
large pot swung over the wood fire from a crane, and in the same pot was put a
net full of cabbage and another of potatoes or other vegetables, as the case
might be, ready for John when he came home to dinner. It was Holden who told me
that if I grasped a stinging nettle tight with courage it would not sting me,
but if I just touched it I should get a nasty sting and must get a cool dock
leaf, which I should be almost sure to find close by, and rub it in, which would
soon take away the pain. The motto he gave me was “Do boldly what you do at all”
and I carried it into practice when I got home, much to the amusement of my
elders, by dashing my hands into cold water when it made them tingle, saying as
I vigorously washed them “Do boldly what you do at all”. I found it a most
useful lesson in after life.
The preparation of the wool for market was very
interesting: it had to be washed in the brook and dried in a shed made of open
lathes, then it was taken to the barn and packed into enormous bags slung up
from one end of the barn to the other. When the bag was pressed full it was sewn
up with stout string and a large packing needle several inches long and sent
away in a wagon. The barn was a delightful place to play in with its great
scales to weigh the bales of wool (and we children by the way!), the barrel of
alum, the wooden steps and funny half doors and the crowds of wall-flowers which
grew in all the nooks and crannies outside and underneath. Another building of
interest was the bark mill, which was worked by a patient horse going round and
round, and ground the bark into little pieces which, when steeped in water, made
tan, which with lime and alum etc transformed the sheepskin into supple leather.
Everyone in Charlwood at that time wore leggings with innumerable buttons; the
better classes had shining brass buttons like gold and the labourers round
leather buttons; the latter always wore smock frocks when at work and some even
on Sundays and very picturesque they looked. They were generally of brown or
drab linen, sometimes white or black, and always beautifully worked with
smocking at the shoulders and sleeves.
Mrs. Wright kept the shop
nearest to our end of the village. She was a very old woman, tall and
extraordinarily thin, with nut-cracker jaws; she wore a close white cap of net
with a full goffered border and her white hair was smoothly tucked away inside.
A little check woollen shawl was worn around her shoulders and a large apron of
black stuff covered the skirt of her gown in the afternoon and a print one, I
think, in the morning. She was like Miss Mattie in “Cranford” in one thing: no
child came into her shop but she said “Would you like a bulls’eye, my dear?” and
forthwith made a little screw of paper with three or four of these desirable
delicacies for them. What wonder if her business throve and children were always
ready to run there for errands! It was a tiny shop but contained something of
everything in the way of drapery and grocery; it was in fact a general store.
She had two sons, both married and with several children, one of which was a
very strict disciplinarian and would not allow his children to leave the dinner
table without making a curtsey and saying “Thank you Father and Mother for my
good dinner.”
There was a butcher’s shop kept by Master Humphrey, where you
might possibly get the joint of meat you desired, but generally had to be
content with just the opposite: if beef was wanted, they would have a very nice
leg of mutton, or if a leg of mutton was asked for, Mr. B. at the Rectory had
bespoke the only leg he had - wouldn’t you like a bit of pork? The Misses H’s
two daughters kept a little school. The only other shop was a larger one kept by
Mrs. B. whose daughters were great playfellows of ours on our visits to the
village. It was in the village street, a very pretty quaint street with trees at
the entrance cut in the shape of Temple Bar and forming an arch over the road.
Their garden was very charming with old yew trees cut into a summer house with a
peacock cut out on the top and a yew hedge round the lawn. At the top end of the
street was an inn “The Rising Sun” and at the other end of it was “The Half
Moon”, both of which did I fear more business in the evenings than was good for
the villagers. Then there was the village shoemaker, commonly called Uncle Peter
as he had a good many relatives in the place of the name of Ellis; one, a
brother or cousin, was called Wicar Ellis because he always, like the immortal
Sam Weller, spelt the Vicar’s name with a We.
The little front windows up the street were all filled with lovely flowering
plants, wonderful herbaceous calceolarias, canary-coloured with red and brown
blotches, and pelargoniums of every hue and lovely fuchsias and heliotrope.
One rarely sees such fine flowers as in village street windows. I suppose
it is because they get a lot of care expended on them and it may be partly
the absence of gas.
If we go to the end of
the street, we come to the old church. Entering the churchyard by a lych gate we
see many wooden tombstones, some of great age, and there rest the remains of the
James and Judith Dolby who grew and spun the flax for their linen sheets which
lasted so many years. The inside of the church was whitewashed, but once when
being repaired the remains of old paintings were discovered illustrating some
scenes of martyrdom and the seven deadly sins. The Vicar at that time took more
interest in fox hunting than working in his parish and the church goers were
sadly few, so many of the farmers were heavy drinkers and there was absolutely
nothing to interest the menfolk in the evenings except the public house.
As you came from the railway station of Horley you passed Povey Cross where
the signpost pointed to Crawley and Charlwood; taking the latter road you passed
through a pretty road with overarching trees and the schoolhouse kept by Aaron
Hyde for many years and a farm house opposite where lived Mr. and Mrs. Round and
their sons and the next farm was that of Mr. Brown. The mill stood at the
entrance and very fascinating it was to watch the sails going round, dipping
close to the ground one after the other and then rising up into the sky like a
great ship, then the little doors up the side of the mill where the full sacks
were let down into the wagon below and the dusty miller looked out and gave
orders to his men. Inside were wonderful cog wheels and heaps of grain and sacks
empty and full and white dust covering everything. Passing by the mill along a
cart road with a grassy common on each side we came to a pond with ducks and
geese busily engaged in dipping their heads under water and sitting on the banks
sunning themselves looking a most peaceful family until you walked through them
up to the little white gate, when the geese set up such a terrifying cackling
and stretched out their necks with a dreadful hissing that it needed all the
bravery one could muster to make a dash for the gate and shut it quickly behind
you with the hissing, shrieking crowd of birds safely on the other side of the
fence. I have a shrewd suspicion now that the geese were more frightened than
angry and that some boys used to tease them and make them hiss for fun.
We used to go to Mrs. Brown’s farm for butter and it was always taken from
the dairy and wrapped in freshly gathered vine leaves and put into the basket.
There seemed generally to be baking going on there and we were offered fresh
lardy cakes, flaky and light as possible.
The farm house was large and roomy
with stone floors and a parlour reached by mounting two or three steps and
smelling of wool mats and antimacassars and unopened windows; it was seldom
used unless for distinguished visitors who came to tea and talk. The hall or
living room was much pleasanter and had large bright windows at each end. The
farmer and his wife used to sit there and have most of their meals and there was
always bread and cheese and ale even at tea time, as the master did not think
much of tea or coffee unfortunately. Upstairs the floors, walls and ceilings were very uneven
and your feet often went down most unexpectedly when walking across the room.
Out of doors, in the farm yard it was most delightful to see the cows milked and
the calves fed and to go round with the basket of corn to feed the chickens and
ducks and hunt for the eggs.
Now I must take you to the Chapel. It
was a wooden building and was formerly a barracks but was purchased by the
Surrey Mission who carried on a great work there for many years; then it was
given up and came into the hands of the Particular Baptists. They used Gadsby’s
hymn book and sat down during the singing of hymns but at prayer time all stood
up and turned their backs to the minister. I was stood up on the seat and found
great solace during the long prayer in looking at the knots in the wood at the
back of the pew and in peeping over to see what another little girl was doing
who was about my own age; sometimes she ate sweets which I thought rather
wicked. There was no organ or harmonium to lead the singing, but a band of men
sat in a large square singing pew and played flutes, violins and, I think,
cornets. One man I distinctly remember who sat with his back towards me clothed
in a large greenish check, about two squares of which covered his back. His hair
and side whiskers were bright red and his cheeks puffed out in his efforts to
blow his instrument made a great impression on me. The services were morning and
afternoon and a Sunday School was held before the afternoon service when the
children were taught to read out of spelling books commencing with ba, be, bi,
bu and so on with all the consonants, going on to little sentences such as “I
cannot see God, but He can see me”. The hymns sung at the services were always
given out two lines at a time so that those who could not read or had no hymn
books could join in the singing and the tunes were the good old fashioned sort
where the parts chase each other merrily and one line or part of one is repeated
several times, often with utter disregard to the sense. Some of the voices were
beautiful, as clear as those of the lark and mounted up and up most fearsomely
but they always got down safely without a catastrophe. I always liked to join in
the singing but being yet unable to read and not appreciating the hymns read out
in the vernacular, I piped out the words of a little piece of poetry I had been
taught, beginning “Down on a green and shady bank, A modest violet grew.” One of
the hymns I heard sung there commenced with the verse…
“When Ruth a-gleaning went, Jehovah was her guide,
To Boaz’ field he led her straight and she became his bride.”
I still prefer my own choice of verses.
In the olden days Charlwood was in a large common, but in the
time of my grandfather that and other common land was taken in and sold out in
parcels by the Lord of the Manor and most of the people of the village who were
able to do so bought a plot of common land and built a house with a large piece
of land for a garden, and fields and buildings of whatever kind they needed for
their work. One family, a carpenter etc, built a pretty cottage at one end of
the village. The only drawback to it was a want of windows at the back, for in
those days windows were taxed and there were two dark rooms used as bedrooms.
When the father and mother were past work the only remaining daughter kept a
little school and taught reading, writing and arithmetic and sewing. The
children had a very happy time generally, especially in the summer as there were
many fruit trees in the garden and orchard, and cherries were most abundant;
these were given as rewards with a generous hand not to mention apples, pears
and plums. A new scholar of very tender years was sent to learn her ABC and we
heard Miss Redford say to her “That is A, say A dear.” No answer, only a little
finger put in the corner of a shy, pursed up little mouth. “Say A dear and you
shall have a cherry.” still silence; “Say A dear and you shall have two
cherries.” After a while, patience and cherries won.
Two little visitors from
town were sent for an hour or so to learn sewing; they talked so much and worked
so little that the governess called them up to her and said “Do you know, my
dears, that every time a sheep bleats he loses a bite? You cannot talk and work
at the same time.” Fancy work was considered to be a waste of time and my
sister, who had just learnt to crochet and was rather proud of her
accomplishment, showed it to a very old great aunt; much to her mortification
Aunt Sal said “Tis only loiter pegs to wind the sun down with.”
When Miss Redford was left alone she gave up the school and took in summer boarders;
we used to go there sometimes in June or July, school holidays coming quarterly in
those days, and the times we had with the strawberries and cherries were
something to be remembered. The bigarreaus from a large spreading tree in the
front garden, the morellos trained on the back of the house and having to be
gathered for pies with the aid of a ladder, not to mention the whitehearts and
blackhearts in the orchard! It makes my mouth water now to think of the cherry
pies made with sweet biscuit crust and powdered over with sifted sugar. We were
not allowed in the kitchen on baking days, as the secret of this wonderful
pastry and of some delicious fritters we used to beg her to make for us, was
most jealously guarded. Alas! in this year of grace 1920 such cookery is not to
be attempted, with margarine and baking powder instead of butter and eggs; with
butter at 2/8 a pound and eggs at 5½d each and sugar 8d a pound and lard at
2/- the pound.
Miss Redford was happily married soon after she gave up school
and she and her husband kept a pony chaise and a dear little fat pony to drive
about, as they were neither of them very young.
When I was nine years old we removed to a house in Grosvenor Street,
Camberwell and I went to a small school called a “Ladies college” and stayed
there for several terms, but as I was not strong it was thought better to send
me to a boarding school in the country. Ashe Park in Hampshire was chosen and
the large old mansion set in a lovely park and surrounded by woods and pretty
walks was certainly very good for one’s health. We had little garden plots where
we could sow mustard and cress, and plant primroses and cowslips, and were taken
for walks where we could pick wild sweet violets and woodruff, and if I had been
older and had a little guidance by one who loved botany, I feel sure I could
have found many rare flowers. I remember seeing unfamiliar cranesbills and
spindle berries and pignuts which we often dug up with our finger-nails as Caliban offered to do for Miranda in “The Tempest”.
The church at Ashe was a
pretty rural one and I remember the clergyman’s name only from a line the girls
made up: “Portly Parson Pettit, preaching penitence”. The Sundays were not
noteworthy except for collects, commandments, texts and hymns to be learnt. I
was there for about two terms and very glad to be home again. My sister met me
at the station on my return and seemed so grown-up as she had left school, and
for the next year she taught me in preparation for Pelican House, Peckham, the
school where she had been for two years.
Miss Fletcher, the Principal, was a dear old lady who had taught several
generations of girls. There were some twenty boarders and some like myself
day-boarders who came from a long distance and stayed to dinner; there were also
some day-scholars. On Sunday Miss Fletcher took the boarders to Camberwell Green
Congregational Church and was closely connected with the work there. The Rev.. John Pillans was the minister for some
years and left to go on a Missionary Deputation to Madagascar with Dr. Mullins of
the IMS. On his return he took a charge at Huntley, Aberdeenshire where he
remained for the rest of his life. Mrs. Pillans was an ideal minister’s wife and
as they had no children she was free to take the oversight of many societies and
visited the families of the members of the church. Once when she called, I was
hemming one of the large silk handkerchiefs then used by gentlemen, for my
father and she said that as soon as I left school she hoped that I would join
her working-party for young ladies, which I accordingly did. It was held at her
house in Camberwell Grove and Mr. Pillans used to come and talk to us on literary
subjects or read extracts from recent books. Tennyson was then bringing out his
“Idylls of the King”. Camberwell was the home of Ruskin and Browning, though
they had not become generally read.
The chapel was built on the site of Sir
Christopher Wren’s house, the short road leading to it from Camberwell Green
being called Wren Road. It was built in 1853 and the church and congregation
worshipping at the old Mansion House Chapel then removed there, the minister at
that time being the Rev. John Burnet, whose white hairs ! just remember seeing in
the pulpit.
Miss Fletcher held a Bible Class on Wednesday and Saturday mornings
for all the day-girls from 9 to 10 o’clock and it was so popular that many
former pupils made a practice of coming as visitors, when able or in the
neighbourhood. She taught in a most methodical and interesting way, giving
courses of lessons on the Old Testament, giving us charts of the Kingdoms of
Israel and Judah, and then would take up the synoptic gospels and compile a book
of sections of the life of Christ.
While I was at Pelican House School, my only
brother was taken ill suddenly and brought home in a cab from the bank where he
was engaged. He died two days afterwards without regaining consciousness, which
was a great grief to us all. He had only reached the age of 21 and his life was
full of promise; he had used his spare time in teaching, at an evening school,
lads whose education had been neglected. There was no public education then and
Sunday Schools and evening classes were often the only teaching young people
got, as they had to begin work so very young.
The next year, 1867, Uncle Dolby, my mother’s only brother, died of an
attack of apoplexy. He had married and removed from Charlwood some years before
to Hastings, where my sister and I had spent several very pleasant holidays.
We spent that Christmas with Mr. and Mrs. A. Brooker at Crondall, Hants. It was
a bitterly cold season and everything eatable froze, snow covered the ground and
no water could be kept in the bedrooms or the jugs would crack. One night I went
to bed earlier than the grown-ups who brought me up some hot elder wine and toast
of which they were partaking and they found the turnover of the sheet stiff with
my frozen breath.
On New Year’s Day it stopped snowing and we went for a walk across the
fields and up the hill, but the snowdrifts were very deep and we had hard work to
get along but much enjoyed the beautiful sight of the snowy hills.
A year later Aunt Amy came to live with us and we all went for a holiday to the
Isle of Wight in 1869 with Mr. and Mrs. Brooker and Fruie their adopted daughter.
We stayed a fortnight at Ryde and did a lot of excursions, went round the island
in a steamer and came back in a sad state of weakness as the sea was rough, and
passing the Needles made us all sick. It was very beautiful to watch the different
parts of the coast as we passed, as long as our health permitted, but all the
passengers got paler and paler and one by one succumbed to the inevitable. The
next fortnight we spent at Shanklin and enjoyed the walks and drives in the
neighbourhood; Bonchurch, Ventnor with its hills, St. Boniface often covered with
a cap of cloud, Appuldurcombe and other villages and walks along the cliffs after
a shower of rain, when we gathered mushrooms to take back for supper.
Another year we went to Bognor, but it was not much to our taste, as the sea went
out so far and the hills were at such a distance that we wrote on the deserted pier:-
The little hills are ten miles off,
The woodlands, where are they?
There’s nought but sand in Bognor land,
We won’t prolong our stay.
For all that, we enjoyed a day at Arundel and another at
Goodwood and came home all the better for our change.
In 1871 my sister and I were invited to Cornwall to visit Aunt Hannah at
Trewarthenick and while there made friends with Mr. Wm. Hotten and his sister who
lived at Trelasker. She had a large St. Bernard dog called Tell, a lovely
creature, but the children of the village used to think it was a great lion
coming and ran away. She did not keep it long as it went around the different
farmhouses and had so many free meals of milk etc. that it was rather a nuisance.
We stayed a few days at another farm, Fentongollen, with the Cleeves and then
went to Trevilnas to stay with the Pascoe family, some of whom had already been
to London to stay with us in Camberwell. Willie, the eldest son taught us to
ride on a dear old white pony for which they had a side saddle and altogether
they gave us a most delightful time with picnics and a drive to Gwennap Pit on
Whit Monday, where Wesley used to preach and where each year several thousands
of Wesleyans make a pilgrimage and hold an open air service in the old arena
which had been formerly used to fight cocks.
Mr. Wm. Hotten came over to Trevilnas
several times on his white horse Fancy and took my sister for a ride, she on the
white pony, on which she had to undergo some teasing from Mr. Pascoe about the
number of white horses visiting their farm, as Mr. Kendall of Tremorgan was at
that time coming over very often to see Mary Anne, the eldest Miss Pascoe; they
were engaged to be married. His horse was also grey. My father came down to
Cornwall to fetch us home, and took us first to Truro for a fortnight, from
whence we took excursions to the Lizard, Land’s End, Marazion, Falmouth and
Kynance and,of course, the River Fal. Mr. Hotten was invited to come to London
at Christmas, which he did, and he and my sister were then engaged and the
marriage arranged for the following June.
The wedding took place at Camberwell
Green Congregational Chapel on June 12th 1872. Mr. Pillans conducted the service
and quite a number of people filled the church. My sister’s Sunday School
scholars put a lovely bouquet of flowers into the carriage as they were driving
away; she was very much beloved by all and everyone was sorry that she was going
away to live at Trelasker in Cornwall, nearly 300 miles distant. I was now the
only child at home and had plenty to occupy my time, what with church work and
home duties, as my parents went to Cornwall for several weeks in the summer
following and left me in charge; then I had my turn and had a delightful visit
to Clara’s new home, learning to make butter and feeding the poultry and picking
fruit and vegetables from the garden and taking long rambles through the woods
and fields.
On Michaelmas Day 1873 my first niece was born and after much
discussion was named
Edith.
At Christmas my sister and her husband with the baby
came to Camberwell and she stayed about a month. It became rather a joke with
one old gentleman at the church that we were so often travelling between
Camberwell and Cornwall. “Why” he said “You are like buckets in a well: one up
and t’other down.”
Those visits to Trelasker were very happy ones with young
friends from Camberwell to join me occasionally in a summer holiday, when we
made excursions to old friends at Trevilvas, Probus etc. The foundation stone of
Truro Cathedral was laid on one of these occasions by the then Prince of Wales,
afterwards Edward VII. All the gentry, yeomen and farmers of the neighbourhood
were asked to form a mounted escort from Tregothnan to Truro; a goodly
contingent gathered at Probus where there is a lovely church, with tower and
peal of bells which, of course, rang merrily as the cavalcade met from all the
farms and by-roads to the turnpike. In those days it cost quite a good sum if
you had far to ride or drive along turnpike roads; there were barred gates
placed at different turnings and you had to pay the man or woman at the toll bar
6d more or less, according to what you were riding or driving. My brother-in-law
had a nice grey mare named Fancy which could carry a lady most beautifully, and
as my father gave us a side-saddle and riding-habit, I was often able to ride
over the farm or down to the sea, about 4 miles off, and sometimes 1 took my
little niece in front of me for a little ride, which was much nicer that drawing
a pram over the roads or fields.
In December 1874 a little boy,
Herbert, was
added to the family and when Christmas was over I went to stay at Trelasker for
a few months to keep house, as my sister was not able to do much. The two babies
were a great delight to us all as they grew older and able to walk and talk.
Rosa Dunstone came as nursemaid at this time and stayed for some years; her
mother was one of the old-fashioned sort and I should like to give you a little
sketch of the family. Robert, the father, was a fisherman and had his own boat
at Portloe, just opposite the Gull Rock. His two boys, Bovey and Robert, went
out with him to fish and there were five girls who had most resplendent names
and were brought up to work well and honestly and kept their places for years;
they were ‘stayers’ when they had a good place.
The names of these girls were
respectively: Alice, Rosa Jane, Anna Maria Cassandra, Nora Ophelia Geraldina and
Rhoda whose other names I unfortunately forget. “My dear woman, where did you
get all those names from?” said my sister. “Well Missus, I got them out of a
book; I do like a nice-sounding name and I haven’t much to give them, but I
thought they should all have the prettiest names I could find. I did think of
another for Nora but when I got to the church it went clean out of my head.”
Whenever she came to see her daughter she would bring a fish as an offering; a
pollock or a lobster or crayfish, all fresh from the sea. There is another story
about the crayfish which was forwarded to me at Cuby Cottage some years later
when I had some of my nieces staying with me; on their return home, Florrie the
baby said to her mother “Oh Mother! We had beadle (beetle) for breakfast this
morning and it was lovely.”
My mother’s health failed in 1879 and the doctor
said she must not stay in London but go into a quiet country place, so after
thinking of several places we found a nice house in Tregony with a lovely garden
and orchard, and moved there in the autumn. It was only a mile and a half from
my sister and was on the top of a hill and in a very healthy position. The move
to Cornwall was not an easy one. Aunt Amy was paralysed the year before and
entirely lost the use of her legs, so she had to be carried from house to
carriage and from carriage to train. At that time we took ten or twelve hours to
do the journey and had six miles’ drive at the end, up and down very steep
hills.
We were so thankful to get our poor invalid in bed with her weary shaken
bones and there she remained for some days before she was sufficiently recovered
to be dressed and carried into a dear little sitting-room adjoining, where she
could look out over the hills and valleys. My mother was safely entertained at
Trelasker where she had been for some weeks and my father stayed there also for
a while, till we got the house in order. The neighbours had been so kind in
lending us things till our furniture came which took nearly a week, and till
then we lived in rather picnic fashion and were dependent on our friends for
household utensils. I had a nice maid Ellen, who had been with me for several
years and all the villagers adopted us at once, so that soon all difficulties
vanished and we were able to enjoy our country home. I learnt to drive and we
got a nice pony and low carriage so that I could take my father and mother round the
country and to the sea which was only four miles away.
Tregony was
formerly an important place with a tidal river up to it, a branch of the Fal
called the Ruan River, which was navigable up to the bottom of the town, as
shown by old boat hooks and iron staples fastened to the rocks; but the channel
has long since been narrowed to a wide stream which carries down the refuse of
the China Clay Works at St. Austell and St. Stephens to the sea by St. Mawes and
Falmouth. Before the Reform Bill in 1832, the town was enfranchised and sent two
members to Parliament and there were wild doings at the elections and much
drinking and corruption. It was what was called a rotten borough and the people
had no voice in the elections, the Lords of the Manor having it all their own
way.
Until the Penny Post was inaugurated in 1840, letters to London from Tregony
cost 1/- unless the writer could get them franked by an MP or a member
of the aristocracy. There is a clock tower about half way up the town, where a
market was once held, but now it has fallen into disuse. The clock has only an
hour hand, so you can only tell the exact time when it strikes the hour. The
population of the place when we lived there was about 300 and the only street
straggled up a steep hill from the river to the church at the top. There were
three chapels - Union Chapel where the Congregationalists and Baptists united,
the Wesleyan Chapel and the Bryanite Chapel, a very small affair. We were all
very friendly and would close our chapel if one of the others had an
anniversary, as there was plenty of room and we did not mind sitting up close
together. The Wesleyans had their Sunday School Anniversary in the spring and
the chapel was generously decorated with lilac and laburnum which, with the
well-oiled heads of the scholars, made the atmosphere rather trying to those
unused to it.
The Cornish people are very excitable and waves of religious
fervour sweep periodically over the towns and villages when old and young flock
to the chapels night after night and seem carried out of themselves with
contrition and weeping for their sins. I have seen young men and women go up to
what they call among the Wesleyan Methodists the penitence form and kneel there
in great distress while the whole congregation unite in prayer and afterwards
come away with joy and rapture in their faces; and some quite change their lives
afterwards, leaving off drinking and swearing and are a comfort to their
families. Of course, there are some who merely profess to be changed and
afterwards return to their old bad habits.
There were three public houses in the town but they were mostly very well
conducted. One was opposite to the only butcher’s shop in the place
and the two men were constantly sparring. The butcher was thin, the inn-keeper
stout and jolly-looking. He said to his neighbour who was a total abstainer
“You are a poor advertisement for temperance you are. If you were to take
a pint or two of my beer every day it would do you a sight of good, look at me
now!” “Ah” said the butcher “I’ll tell ’ee how ’tis
- the men drink your beer and fill your till with their money so that you can
afford to buy my good joints of meat; that’s what makes you so fat and well.”
The parish church of St. Cuby and St. James was on the top of the hill of which
the long street of Tregony consists. It is a fine old building with a square
tower like most of the Cornish churches but had been spoiled by having the
granite window frames replaced by wood, while the stones were thrown aside and
used to patch up fences or build into summer-houses in gardens, as was the case
in our garden at Cuby Cottage. The Archaeological Society sometimes visited
Tregony and the neighbourhood and found many interesting relics of the past.
Some of the farmers were rather sceptical as to these remains and one, on
being asked by one of the learned men “Now, what do you suppose this granite
trough was originally designed for, Mr. Brewer?” “Pig’s trough” was the laconic
reply.
There was an interesting farm called “Golden Farm” a mile or two from us
which used to be a mansion belonging to an important Roman Catholic family. The
beautiful little chapel is now turned into a barn and there are many remains of
sculptured stones and fine gateways and a legend of an underground passage
leading for miles, but now blocked up. Another tiny church on the road to Probus
and half a mile from Tregony was Cornelly Church, used principally by the family
at Trewarthenick, Mr. and Mrs. Gregor. The old lady Gregor was very determined
that all her servants should go to church every Sunday, wet or dry, and had a
bus called the Church Car, so that they might have no excuse. There was a son
and two daughters; the son married a Roman Catholic lady and they lived a great
deal in Germany, where they had a villa at Rheinstein in The Rhine, but they had
no children and when they died Trewarthenick went to Sir Paul Molesworth, a
member of a very old Roman Catholic family.
The clergyman who officiated at Cornelly Church was a Mr. Peters, a very good old gentleman who lived with his
sister at Pendower, a pretty house near the sea. Both were unmarried and used to
conscientiously visit their very few parishioners who were nearly all dissenting
farmers. There was only one service at Cornelly Church, held on Sunday afternoon
and I once had an amusing experience there. A young friend who was staying with
me said she would like to attend the service whilst I was engaged in the Sunday
School, if I would go and meet her on the way back. When I reached the church I
found the service still in progress, So wandered around the churchyard
meditating amongst the tombstones till such time as the congregation should come
out. I soon heard a voice behind me calling out “Hie” and turning round the
sexton said “Parson sent me out to say that you must please come into the
church; he doesn’t like anyone walking in the churchyard during service.” “But I
thought the service was just over” I said “and I did not wish to make a
disturbance by coming in.” “No disturbance at all” said he “You must please come
in at once; parson saw you out of the window and told me to fetch you in.” What
could I do but obey? So I was marched in and a high square pew was quickly
unbolted and I was projected among a family who had their eyes covered with
their fingers, through which they furtively gazed at the strange trespasser on
their preserve. The sexton meanwhile mounted to his desk in time to say “Amen”
to the prayer with which the Parson filled up the interval of his clerk’s
absence on outpost duty. Then came a hymn which was accompanied on a very wheezy
harmonium by a young woman who was, as it is euphemistically put “not all
there”. I apologised to the nice old clergyman after the service for my
unintentional interruption and received his complete absolution. In the evening
as I was on my way to chapel, I met the old sexton who was on his way to act as
clerk at Tregony Church and he made most profound apologies and hoped “I would
not be offended with him as he didn’t know it was me, and Parson made him do
it”. I was delighted with the adventure which was rather unique.
When Mr. Hotten
was married to my sister, Parson Peters felt it his duty to enquire when, where
and by whom the wedding service was performed and was much troubled to hear it
was in a dissenting chapel and said “Now look here William, I have known your
family for years and they are all in my parish. If it would be any satisfaction
to you, I would be most happy to perform the service over again properly at the
church for nothing, because I hold you in great respect.” “No, thank you Sir”
said William “I am quite satisfied and think once is enough to go through that
ordeal.”
There is a great deal of difference in town and
country Sunday Schools; in the latter there is a great lack of teachers who
have had any training for their work. I had been used to a well organised and
equipped school and found myself rather at a loss when I was asked to take a
class of boys of 10 to 15 in the Odd-fellows Hall as we had no room of our own
and hired that for a time as it had one or two classrooms for infants and older
scholars. The opening service in the larger room went off all serenely and then
I and my 7 or 8 boys marched off into a classroom. I enquired who taught them
generally. “Sometimes a man and sometimes a woman” was the answer. “Shall I tell
you a story about a giant?” said I, and began to tell them about David and
Goliath and got their attention pretty well as long as I enlarged on the
particulars of the challenge and the fight, the fall of the giant and the
cutting off of his head with his own sword. Then I began to tell them of the
giant sins we had to fight against: dishonesty, swearing, lying, getting drunk,
and they began to get very restless. “Lots of people get drunk,” said one
“that’s nothing much” and then to show they had had enough, they tipped over the
forms and rocked the tables to and fro and scrambled about the floor making such
a noise that the superintendent came to the rescue and told us it was time to
come to the close of the school, which I for one did with alacrity.
Another time
all the boys but one stayed outside to see what I would do. “Why David, where
are the others?” “They’m outside and says they bain’t coming in.” “What a pity,
I have such a nice story to tell you.” I went on with the story as if they were
all there and had a most appreciative listener and next Sunday they all turned
up and I seldom had any insubordination afterwards and was good friends with
nearly all of them.
Once, when the Minister superintended, I had some trouble. A
rather repulsive boy would not read a verse of the lesson when I asked him in
his turn and he tore a page out of his Testament into little bits and then said
he couldn’t as he had not got it. This upset another naughty boy and the
minister, coming in to see what the noise was about, the boy took out his
penknife and said “I’ll kill ’ee, I will”. I went to the boy’s home; he had no
mother, and the woman who kept the house said “There is no harm in him if he is
let alone; it is only wickedness.” I told her that if he was allowed to threaten
people with knives he would get into serious trouble.
We were much cramped in
this little hall and as the school increased we hired the Board school which had
not been built many years and was a great improvement. I kept the class for two
years and then the older girls needing a teacher as their old one was getting
married, I took that and a young man filled my place. The change was much to my
satisfaction though and we parted with mutual kindly feelings. Just before
leaving the boys’ class the lesson subject was the parable of the house built on
the sand and that founded upon a rock, and I called to their remembrance the
digging into the rock for the foundation of the Board School and that therefore
there was no chance of its blowing down in a gale of wind. “I wish it would”
said Johnny “I do hate this owld school.” “Why do you come then?” said I; “Oh! I
didn’t mean on Sunday” he replied, and I said “Well, that is a comfort to me at
any rate; I am glad you like coming to Sunday School.”
It was rather
inconvenient not having a schoolroom of our own at the chapel and as we had a
piece of ground available it was decided to make a supreme effort of faith and
works and set about building and collecting the money. The farmers lent their
horses and carts to carry stone, sand and timber; the superintendent and his
brother were builders and their estimate of the cost of the work was accepted.
We all sent to our friends to tell of our need and ask for their help and my old
friends at Camberwell Green Church made an instant and hearty response with a
cheque for £40. This cheered us on and we gave all we could spare, collected the
rest from friends and opened the schoolroom with two shuttered classrooms and an
infants’ room free of debt, at a cost of not much over £250. We did enjoy our
own hall and got up services of song and even a cantata “Under the Palms” with
only a few of the singers who could read music and some of those Tonic Sol-Fa
which was Greek to me.
The Cornish voices are very good as a rule and there was
one very musical family, that of a shoemaker, with fine tenor and alto voices.
The difficulty I found with the members of my choir was that they all wanted
the principal parts. Tom, a fine alto, sent his book back one practice night by
a cousin with the news: “Tom says ’ee bean’t going to come no more, if ’ee can’t
sing in the quartette; ’ee’ve as good a right to as Ben.” “Oh” I said “Take him
back the book and tell him we cannot do without him anyhow; there are solos I
want him to take; we shall all have to do our best if it is to be a success.” He
came back eventually and all went off well, especially the little ones’
choruses.
Cornwall is great on tea-meetings and when I first went to Tregony all
those who gave a tray were expected to make and bake saffron cake and splitters
to be split and covered with cream or butter and provide cream, butter, milk,
tea service, teapot and silver and knives for cutting up, also tablecloth and
vases of flowers, so it was no sinecure, especially for those who lived a mile
or so from the village and had a family of young children. On these occasions
all the neighbouring churches sent contingents; there would be a van-load from
Mevagissey, wagonettes from St. Austell and Truro and dogcarts from other
outlying parishes. When the tables had been filled with the ministers and
friends and as many of our local friends as could sit down, Grace was sung, tea
poured out and plates soon emptied amid pleasant conversation with friends not
often visiting us. Then these were invited into neighbouring houses and gardens
to rest and look around and the tables were cleared and refilled with villagers
and boys from the boarding school, Hart House. After these had been sufficed,
you may be sure there were not many basketsful to be taken away and all went
into the chapel and had some interesting speeches. As tickets were 1/- each and
6d for children and all food given, the money taken made a valuable addition to
the funds.
There was one excursion we used to make every summer,
preferably when we had London visitors staying with us: a day on the river Fal.
There was a branch of the river at Ruan where the tide ran up twice in the 24
hours and filled the sandy bed with water from the sea, so that it looked like a
chain of lakes, and the woods grew down to the water’s edge. When the tide ran
down there was only a very narrow stream of fresh water marked by sticks pushed
in the muddy sand to show the channel and guide the boatmen at the half-tides. A
boatman called Solly Blarney would put himself and his boat at our disposal when
the tide served for a very small sum, and we used to pack up our luncheon basket
and take a kettle filled with fresh water in case we did not hit on a good
spring, and a few nice dry chips to start a fire which could be fed from the dry
sticks from the woods. We were careful to light the fire on the rocky beach
quite away from the woods. We were generally a party of 12 to 18 and had an
extra small boat in case some of our friends liked to row themselves or go into
a sheltered creek and bathe.
After the meal we would wash up ready for the next,
and then explore the woods to stretch our legs. There was a heronry in one part
of the shore and several mansions, Tregothnan the seat of Lord Falmouth being
the most beautiful and striking in situation with its deer park, seven miles
round, and its picturesque boathouse. Sometimes if the wind and tide were
favourable Solly would put up a sail and take us as far as St. Mawes and
Falmouth. It was often dark on our return journey and the river would shine like
silver at each dip of the oar, caused by the phosphorescent light from the
animalcula in the water. I once brought home some of the water in a bottle and
examined it through a microscope. When magnified the little creatures were quite
round and the size of a pin’s head with a tiny spike on one side and they all
kept spinning around like tops as long as they lived.
At one time when we met
the tide coming in, it brought thousands of flat circular jellyfish about the
size of an Osborne biscuit, clear and iridescent and with valves continually
opening and shutting, I suppose breathing and feeding. We were sometimes caught
in the rain when on the river and once, just as we had prepared our lunch, it
came on in a stream and the children of the party were soaked. We found a
cottage and begged the old woman to let us in and light a fire to dry our wet
things. She very kindly consented, but we heard her mopping up her brick floor
and saying to herself “What a mess, oh what a mess!”
Those who did not know the
channel often got stuck in the mud in going up the Ruan River and once I heard
of a party of London servants from Tregothnan thinking to explore its beauties
one Sunday afternoon without a boatman; they were stranded and had to wait till
the tide turned in the early hours of the next morning.
Another
annual excursion was to St. Columb Forth near Newquay. On one occasion, when
Edith was under a year old, her father, mother, auntie and the nursemaid Rosa
drove across the moors and heather the fourteen miles to the north coast at St.
Columb. The turf there is so soft and springy that it is like walking on a
mattress and is studded with thrift and tiny vernal or autumnal squills,
according to the time of year, and one can lie down as on a couch and watch the
magnificent waves dash against the rocks and caves several hundreds of feet
beneath and sometimes coming in a cloud of spray through a blow-hole and giving
the unwary watcher an impromptu showerbath. When it was low tide we decided to
go down the rocks and explore the caves which are only accessible at low tide,
and leave Baby and Nurse on the top to await our return. The caves were well
worth exploration, the floors being covered with fine white sand and the roofs
with ferns and sea spleenwort, while the pools left by the receding tide were
like gardens filled with delicate seaweeds, anemones, sea snails and sometimes
little fishes with tufts on their heads darting into their thickets of seaweed;
and shrimps and baby crabs also took part in the pageant.
We lingered for quite
a long while in this fairy scene and then, hearing the waves roar a warning that
the tide was coming up, we turned to retrace our steps, but alas! we were
completely cut off from our easy downward path and the place where we stood
would soon be covered with water; and if we managed to climb up to a ridge of
rock above the high tide mark we should still have to stay there for twelve
hours before we could get to the path by which we had descended. The cliff above
us was at least 150 feet high and almost straight up, but at last Mr. Hotten
spied an old iron ladder fixed in the rock about half-way up and said “I will
see if I can get to that ladder and if it is safe will come back for you.” He
did so and attracted the notice of a coastguard who told him that it was quite
possible to get up that way and there was no other way, except by making a
detour of about three miles along a difficult scrambling, rocky path.
We plucked
up our courage for the attempt and started on our perilous way, my sister first,
her husband close behind her and I following in the rear. How glad we were to
get to the ladder and to hear the coastguard’s cheery voice telling us it was
quite safe. He lay down flat on the edge of the cliff and gave us each in turn a
strong brown arm to land us on the top, where we found Nurse and Baby almost
distracted with anxiety and hunger. Our coastguard friend told us that a few
months before, two ladies had actually had to stay all night in the caves and
pretty wisht they found it too, with no sound but the waves and the shrieking of
the sea birds. The pathway up the cliff has now been made quite easy with steps
cut in the rock and a handrail fixed on the seaward side so that no accident is
possible now.
About six miles from Tregony there are some china clay works, at
St. Stephens, and I once went to visit an old servant who had a son working there
and I was much interested in seeing over the mills. China clay is extracted from
partly-decomposed granite, which is only found in one or two parts of England
and is most valuable. The stone is ground up in a large mill and a stream of
water is poured into it and it is kept in motion till thoroughly mixed up.
The white sediment which settles at the bottom is the clay and the water with
grit and dirt is carried off into the river, while the clay when dry and hard is
cut into large square blocks, packed into trucks and sent by rail to the
potteries and to the cotton mills in Lancashire, where it was formerly used
largely for dressing calico. There are some lovely crystals found in the
quarries where the stone is cut out: some clear white and others delicate mauve,
almost like amethysts and of beautiful forms.
Most of the hedges in Cornwall are
built up with a soft stone filled in with turf and earth, and in that damp warm
climate they soon are covered with ferns and flowers. The ferns are especially
prolific and of many varieties; honeysuckle and wild roses festoon them too. A
little stream that ran by the side of the Ruan Road was a picture in June, with
its yellow iris and forget-me-nots, ragged robins and wild roses, with here and
there a sweet briar.