“Oh, I left an important parcel in Irun and am going back to get it,” he answered. Then, pointing to a bit of red worsted tied to his umbrella, he continued, “This was put on by my wife, who knows how forgetful I am, so that I may be sure and not pass the border.” While we were talking, he suddenly looked out of the car window with a wild exclamation: “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.