“My God, we have passed Irun!”
In spite of the red worsted reminder, he had gone over the border again into France and would have to spend another three weeks in quarantine!
Chapter VII: From Breton to Briton
St. Ives, Cornwall; London
Going from Concarneau to St. Ives was like moving up from the thirteenth to the seventeenth century. No more thatched roofs, no more floors of beaten earth, no more manure piles in front of the houses. The roofs are of slate, topping little stone houses, with quite proper floors; the front yards are clean, and the Cornish farmer is most likely a Wesleyan, but he may belong to one of the other thirteen denominations that flourish in this town of five thousand inhabitants. It is true that there is a circle of stones which archæologists say was placed before the time of the Picts; there are some customs handed down from centuries before; but most of the “ancient laws” are no earlier than Henry VIII, and the old traditions are so changed that the original makers would not recognize them, for the Englishman will think for himself, even though he thinks badly.
The waves that come to St. Ives Bay are straight from America, and there is nothing to equal the beauty of the cliffs and sand except the coast of Maine. The climate is five degrees less than that of Naples and never goes over eighty degrees in summer or much below freezing in winter, so that vegetables and flowers flourish. In January are growing violets, dahlias, and fuchsias for the markets of London. South of St. Ives are five miles of flowers blowing in the breezes. The real beauty of the country is the constant storm, shower and sunlight. If it is not raining, it is shining, and there is a rainbow almost any day—a little Legion of Honor wandering around by itself.
Of the different religious denominations, there were the Christian Brethren, Temperance Wesleyans, Plain Wesleyans, Lady Huntington’s Chapel, Church of England, and the Catholic. The butcher, grocer, and carpenter were all preachers on Sunday. Perhaps the most interesting of the sects, however, were the Primitive Christians. They do not believe the altar or the pulpit is any more holy than other parts of the church, so you will see them kneeling with their faces to the back, to the sides, or any way whatever, while the minister is hard at work preaching at one end.
Right in back of my studio, which was a storehouse for pilchard nets and consequently on the sea, was the old graveyard. Here the stanch Cornishmen were buried four or five layers deep, and occasionally the tide would wash a hole in the wall, scattering the bones, and rolling skulls up and down the beach. The new graveyard was much more modern, with a careful division between the Church of England and the Dissenters, the different entrances separated, as I think my dear mother thought heaven was—one gate for the Unitarians and one for the remainder of the world. I remember a carpenter who accidently cut off his thumb. He was not nearly so worried about the pain as that he might go through all eternity thumbless; so he anxiously saved the piece and, waiting until there was a funeral, dropped it into the grave, being very careful, however, that it was on the Dissenter side of the cemetery (he being a Wesleyan preacher on Sunday). The picture of any part of his body wandering around in a Church of England heaven was something he could not bear to contemplate.
The Cornish have some peculiar uses of the English language, some of the expressions going back to the Elizabethan period. They never use an objective, but say “to I” or “for we”; then there is “on” for “in” and “coolth” and “dryth.” “Minching” means stealing or playing hooky and comes from the same source as “Miching mallecho” of Shakespeare.
Nearly the entire life of these people is spent in the fishing industry, as it is in Concarneau; only here the pilchard takes the place of the sardine. All along the shore are built little whitewashed cabins, glistening in the distance like seagulls. Here, during the fishing season, men sit all day long, watching for that unmistakable faint purple ruff on the water that indicates the run of fish. At the first sign they stand upon the cliff and wave the branch of a tree. Everyone quits work; children rush up and down the shore, waving green branches and shouting the fishing call at the top of their voices. If you look out upon the water you can see a place where the “hair of the animal” has been rubbed the wrong way. There is great rivalry as to which company gets the best schools of fish, and they row madly to beat one another, sometimes having very serious fights. The costume is very different from that of the Bretons, the men wearing tarpaulins and high boots; but the catch is just as large, sometimes taking three days to empty the large circular nets that have been drawn up like a purse.
When I went to St. Ives it was unknown as an art colony, the place where they gathered being Penzance, about ten miles away. Whistler had been there two years before, but Robinson was the sole representative of the clan upon my arrival. When I left, five years later, there was an Art Club of one hundred members. The term “Cornish school” came into being from a remark of Stanhope Forbes to Whistler’s enemy, Harry Quilter, the critic, who asked: