The record-union., 1892-07-02

Especial Correspondence of the RECORD
UNION. Copyright, 1897
ST.. IVES, Cornwall, June Is, 1882.
In the tender realm of nursery rhyme
lore there is a no pleasanter mysticism
than that which clings to the pretty rid
die:
AS l was going to ST. Ives
met a man with seven wives
Each wife had seven sacks,
Each sack mad seven cats
Each cat had Sc en- Kits,
kits, cats sacks and wives
How many were there going TO st. Ives?
So deep and lasting are the impressions
Of childhood that as I tramped around
the southern reach Of st. Ives Bay, from
the pretty hamlet of st. Earth, 1 found
myself unconsciously scanning the high
way far ahead for the same wicked old
fellow who has puzzled the heads Of mill
ions of little folk. But he was not to be
seen any more than the ''kits, cats, sacks
and wives'' are TO be taken in to account
In the olden riddle.
IN truth, no man, woman or child was
visible upon the white and circling high
way. st. Earth nestled there silent and
apparently deserted against the copse and
the hillside. The tide was out in the bay
side messy old piers. Long reaches of
sand showed here and there shining and
brown, like the backs of huge marine
monsters. Gulls wheeled laZiiy above.
Land and sea fowl chartered in the cir
cling marsh edges, or dug in the sand and
ooze. Only 10 the north, through the
rift between the headlands, was there
single sign Of life. On the sapphire blue
of the Irish Sea there were two far, white
sails.
But 1 knew the ancient city lay behind
the huge headland, and quickening my
pace l soon stood at its sea-face and its
highest activity. Here the highway
tumbles into one of the oldest old towns
IN all Europe. No wonder that London
ers are coming this, to them, tremendous
journey OF 30 miles for summer loiter-
Ing, and the grand promontories behind
the town are flling up with brilliant ter
races, or that artists swarm to the remote
place for its bits of antique in architect
ure, It's quaint groupings of fisher folk,
and its outreachingS of wild and glorious
Cornish Coast.
There are pictures and pictures of the
Bay of Naples. But were 1 an artist [
would stake my hope of renoWn on the
picture l saw as / stood above fhe bay and
ancient town Of st. Ives. The bay itself
faces the north. AT your feet are purple
heather and waving ferns parted from the
crystalline water by gliStening sands. To
the right and east the green hillocks OF
the Eastern Shore. Then the broad vel
low beach of Porth-cocking, or the Fore
sand. Dominating this is the great head
land of Pednolva. Beyond, cleaning
like field Of gold. are the magnificent
sands OF PorthminSter; and, further still,
the headland and rocky islet of Godreyy.
with the latter's white lighthouse set
ting cameo-like between the purple of
the seawallS and the tremulous blue of
the ocean,
Before you, the silent, shimmering bay.
with a few white-winged craft scarcely
moving, it seems the distance is so great
from the hight where you stand; the
ocean beyond, shining and blue and still,
rhythmic reaches of incoming tide-waves
miles in length, advancing and retreating
and breaking softly upon the shelving
sands in tiny ridges of sparkling spume;
and here, TO the west, a great mass Of
jumbled gray-old ST. Ives crouching i'm
little pocket Of the rocks, like a mass of
mossy stone in some shadowy glen, Sleep
ing away the centuries, unconscious of
the thunderous sea.
Up here among the terraced villas you
can form little idea of the quaint old
town. The great road Jumps into il at a
leap, and is broken by the fall into the
oldest closes and wynds of any coastwise
nook in England. One could almost hurl
a stone across its crowded tiled roofs
and yet it houses fully 5000 people. The
streets are so narrow, the pavements so
meager, such queer turns are made, such
shadowy arcades are penetrated, that the
surest-footed stranger pedestrian will
meet many a bump and bang in most
careful descent.
Then when you have reached some
thing like a level, you have simply in
creased your difficulties. All the lower
thoroughtares are scarcely more than
shadowy footpaths, leading bewilder-
ingly from somewhere to nowhere. This
one, opening promisingly, brings YOU
squarely against a solid wall of rock.
That one in half dozen PAGES lands you
upon a flat roof, from which you NAV
easily step into the harbor an hundred
feet beneath. Another winds about a
single structure windowleSs as a tenth
century fortress. Descending another
YOU find a nest of homes whose roofs are
the passageway of a street above. Doz-
ems lead squarely into open doors of fish
ermen's homes. Many are like galleries
before others. Some wind through houses
where living rooms of the same house
viii be found at either side OF a public
passage.
And then in what odd hooks the little
shops win be found, There is not q sim
gle street one hundred yards III length
where a half dozen shops are continu-
ously located. Even in these you must
needs often ascend or descend story or
more. The most are literally hidden or
perched in outlandish and out of the way
spots. where, if not stumbled upon. one
must repeatedly come with a guide or
find rediscovery hopeless. Here will be
one perched in a half-timbered Eliza
bethan projection, away up there three
or four stories from the street, and Won
cannot find an entrance. And there one
will be seen as many stories beneath
tiny esplanaded way, but apparently Won
cannot reach it without rope and tackle.
Others are where kitchens should be.
And still others unexpectedly confront
You from dormer windows. Everything
of this sort seems bewilderingly reversed
from its proper order. But nothing ever
seems to be bought or sold in old St.
Ives, the artists gloat over the curious
tumble, and it is all most winsome and
charming to the stranger.
II YOU come at last through this laby-
rinth to the waterside you will gaze back
along the dormers, penthouses and roofs
of the strange old city, and up and on TO
its terraced nights with increased enthu-
Slasm for its rare quaintness and curious
aspects. Tiny towers show here and
there as if outjutting from natural rock.
Bits OF luxuriant foliage and masses of
vines seem to spring from the roofs like
rich clumps of emerald moss. Spires
and wondrously high-peaked roofs stand
out against the gray and green back
ground like spearheads of unpublished
steel Above all, the handsome terraces
and the grand old nights, where once the
beacon-fires were lighted.
GRAY and old as is this Cornish fisher
town but two bits of extreme ANTIQUITY
remain, Just in the rear of the White
Hart Inn by the wharfside, is a huge nile