ght a mineral memorial, and in
the gig again, over the sands to the outlandishly named Mara Zion,
or Market Jew, words probably of similar import. Opposite to this
little place, and joined to it by a neck of rocks passable at
low-water, stands that picturesque gem, Mount St. Michael. You know
the sort of thing; an abrupt, pyramid of craggy rock, crowned with
an edifice, half stronghold and half cathedral. It is a home of the
St. Aubyn family, and is well kept up in the ancient style, but in
rather a small way: a portcullised entrance, old armour hanging in
the guard-room, a beautiful dining-hall with carved oak roof, and
panels, and chairs; a chapel to match, with stained windows; an
elegant Gothic drawing-room, white and gold; and everything, down
to black-leather drinking jugs, in character with the feudal
stronghold. I mounted the corkscrew tower, and got to the broken
stone lantern they call St. Michael's chair; an uncomfortable job,
but rewarded by a splendid panorama, gilt by the setting sun: in
the chapel too, I descended into a miserable dungeon communicating
with a monk's stall, where doubtless some self-immured penitent had
wasted life away, only coming to the light for matins, and only
relieved from solitary imprisonment by midnight mass. This has been
discovered but very lately in repairing the chapel: it was walled
up, and contained a skeleton. As a matter of course, this old
castle contains a little hidden room, where that ubiquitous
vagabond, the royal Charles, laid his hunted head: the poor
persecuted debauchee sponged upon all his friends like Bellyserious
Buggins. Back again, by water this time, to little Mara Zion, but
ever and anon looking with admiration on that beautiful mount; the
western rocks are really magnificent, as big as the largest
hay-stacks, and tumbled about as loosely as an emptied sugar-basin;
some hanging by a corner, and others resting on a casual fragment;
I am sure of one logan-stone, if a little impertinent bit of rock
were only moved away; and I walked under and between more Titanic
architecture than Stonehenge can show: the Druids, for my part,
shall have their due, but not where they don't deserve it. At nine,
after a substantial fried-fish tea, I mounted the night coach to
Falmouth,--outside, as there was