St. Ives is small for its age, but is growing now. The town divides
itself into two parts, the new and the old. The new is new, and the
old is fragrant. The history of St. Ives also divides itself into two,
the ancient and the modern; and the ancient goes back to the time of
the saints. It was a woman who founded St. Ives. It is well to keep
this in mind, because the well-known St. Ives was a lawyer, and so
honest that he was never once struck off the rolls. Some of the piety
of the ancient lady is said to linger about the town. It was she who
introduced a new breed of cats, and the old town is still famous for
cats. There are Manx cats and Persian cats and St. Ives cats. The St.
Ives cat is "at home" in the streets, and may be found in corners
and on doorsteps, or stretched at full length across the roads, and
sidewalks when there are any. St. Ives is apparently owned by cats, so
respectful are the inhabitants, and so careful not to tread on their
tails or toes. If a cat is stretched out enjoying the sunshine, a man
will drive his cart around it, to the danger of humans paying rates
and taxes. The St. Ives cat has a well-to-do, lascivious-looking air,
and is only properly awake at nights. In the daytime the animal slinks
along courts and side streets, and rubs itself against water-butts and
tar-barrels and fish-flaskets, until it has an odour of mixed scents
as strong as a distillery of perfumes. Nothing can beat pilchard oil
mixed with garbage, which the St. Ives cat loves. When the boats return
in the early hours of the morning, the cats make tracks for the quay,
and every cat knows its own boat, and waits for the men to come ashore,
and then purrs and purrs, and rubs its scented fur against the men's
long-boots. The men belong to the cats, every cat a man and every man a
cat. Women and mice don't count much with St. Ives cats--it's men and
fish for them.
SMILER'S PIOUS CAT.
"Ded 'ee ever hear th' story of Smiler's cat? No? Well, then, I'll
tell 'ee," said a man, gutting a fish upon an iron post, and throwing
tid-bits to a long lanky tabby with one mild blue eye and one a dark
grassy green. "He wadn't a fighter, egcept he was provoked, and then
he was game; but he was a most orderly cat and pious. Now you may
laugh, but ef iver there was a pious cat, 'twas Smiler's. Smiler wadn't
pious, but Bob was. Bob was black with a white tie round his neck, so
he had a respectable appearance, and was looked up to by all the cats
in the parish. Bob knew when Smiler had a good week, and knew where to
find him when he'd had enough and 'twas time to go home. Smiler was a
peaceful man at all times, and when he'd had full 'lowance, and more,
he'd sit down and talk over old times, and his father and mother, and
begin to cry. Then Bob would rub against his legs and make for the
door, and Smiler would follow 'zackly like a cheeld--ess he would. When
'twas dark Bob 'ud walk back-'ards and show Smiler the way by the light
of es eyes--starboard and port, port and starboard--till Smiler got
home. Bob was that pious he wouldn't eat no vish on a Sunday, and he
was so looked up to by all the cats that not one would run down to the
quay on a Saturday or a Sunday night--not sure 'nuff--not if all the
boats came in chock-vull of vish. 'No Sunday vish for St. Ives!' was
the motto with Bob, and all the cats followed. Smiler was that happy on
Saturdays that he cudn't rise on Sundays, and Bob used to keep watch
and listen to the Salvation Army services which he cud hear quite plain
through the open window. Bob got to like the music and grew serious,
and tuk to followin' th' band. People tuk notice, and said 'twas
Smiler's Bob, and expected to see Smiler foller the cat, as he did at
nights when he was well 'bowsed.'
"Bob was going after Smiler one night, as usual, after 'sharing,' and,
as ill fortune would have it, he met an old friend in the cat-line,
and they went off together, which was sad for Smiler, who went wrong,
and slipped into the water, without being seen or heard. Bob went
about like a mazed cat, and never rested till he sniffed out Smiler,
caught by a mooring chain. It was wonderful to see Bob follerin' at the
funeral, and many would have taken care ov him, but he had a 'call,'
and follered the Salvation Army, and to the last day of his innocent
life would eat no vish on a Sunday--not no vish even caught on a
Saturday; no risks for Bob. If some people was only as good as some
cats," said the man, resuming work and throwing a morsel to the long
lanky tabby, "why, then I say there'd be no call for bad blood between
East and West on the score of Sunday fishing and Sunday markets."
"How do you account for this uncommon piety in a cat?" asked Guy.
"'Twas bred in him, s'poase. Anyhow, he was uncommon pious, and his
good example is follered. Thiccy theer cat wud no more ate vish catched
on Sunday than he'd fly. Wad'ee, Tom?"
Tom purred.
"I knawed it," said the man, washing the fish and pushing his
forefinger through its gills.
* * * * *
The St. Ives women always enjoyed the reputation of being well endowed
with tongue. Some people think their old vivacity is the result of
foreign blood, but it is singular that the "gift" of tongue should
follow only in the female line. A St. Ives man is quiet enough until
his blood is up, and then he wants to hit something, or throw something
overboard, and make a big noise in the open air. There is the story of
three young women slipping into their pattens and going to the well
with their pitchers for water. Their husbands were at sea. The young
women began to talk, and they talked on and on until their husbands
returned, and found them just at the beginning of an argument. So they
off to sea once more, and back again, and the three women were still
at the well, and getting interested in the argument. Then the three
men took a long voyage, and returning with well-lined purses found
their wives, now grown white, still at the well, but on the point of
adjourning till the morrow to take up the thread of the old argument.
[Illustration: A CORNISH FISH-WIFE.]
The St. Ives woman, however, has a turn for business. What her man
catches she sells, and pays his bills for nets and barking and repairs.
On land she's "boss," and has a "sharing cake" once a week when she
settles accounts. The "sharing cake" is an ancient institution, and
must be respected. It has its ceremonial, too, and must be broken with
the fingers, not cut with a knife, because cold steel would bring bad
luck. The customs of women are very different in the North and South.
Like Newlyn, St. Ives is the home of artists of world-wide reputation.
[Illustration: A SIDE STREET.]