It would not be fair to leave St. Ives without mentioning Mr. Knill. It is true, he lived many years before my time, but he left a permanent money legacy and a personality so redolent with humor that he will never be forgotten. He was not serious, even in death, and built his tomb long before his demise—a large crypt and granite sarcophagus with his coat of arms—upon the top of a hill as a landmark for his smuggling fleet to get into harbor. Having completed this, he made his will. He directed that every five years there should be given ten pounds to the oldest widower, ten to the oldest widow, ten to the town fiddler, and ten each to ten young virgins, provided they all joined hands and danced around his tomb (led by the fiddler) to the tune of “Old Hundred.” This celebration had developed into a pathetic thing. They selected the poor who needed the money and the dinner, which originally was to cost two pounds a plate, but had been reduced to two shillings, even the Cornish not being above a little unpardonable economy. The whole thing was very English, and just like the lichen which comes on a tree when it is old. One of the greatest jokes Mr. Knill played upon the populace was to go to London and die in a hospital, so that his body was dissected by the medical students. I was telling this to a crowd of Londoners, saying that it was such a joke that he should have painted as his motto on his tomb: NIL DESPERANDUM. “Yes,” they said, “but you see his name was spelled with a ‘K.’” London is a male, a great, gloomy being, sitting up on his island, rough, unshaven, besmeared with cinders and smut, and glowering across at the courtesan Paris as she graciously smiles back at him with every wile. For Paris is a woman. In London nobody wants to see you. There is a “get out” sign on the side of every wall, and broken glass on the top. Even the weather frowns on you, making you feel that you are not wanted. But in Paris, the very first man you meet, from the cab driver to the waiter in the café, is very glad to see you and gives you the impression that you are his personal guest. On the north side of the Channel, the Atlantic Ocean roars like an infuriated bull, while on the south side it hurls itself against the coast like an angry woman. In fact, all the male characteristics are those of London—dignity, strength, coarseness, and brute force—but in Paris there is never a trace of these. There is only charm.