trength, a mighty breadth of outline and an
unbroken vastness of extent, nobly adapted to the purpose of protecting
the shores of Cornwall, where they are most exposed to the fury of the
Atlantic waves. In these wild districts, the sea rolls and roars in
fiercer agitation, and the mists fall thicker, and at the same time fade
and change faster, than elsewhere. Vessels pitching heavily in the
waves, are seen to dawn, at one moment, in the clearing atmosphere--and
then, at another, to fade again mysteriously, as it abruptly thickens,
like phantom ships. Up on the top of the cliffs, furze and heath in
brilliant clothing of purple and yellow, cluster close round great
white, weird masses of rock, dotted fantastically with patches of
grey-green moss. The solitude on these heights is unbroken--no houses
are to be seen--often, no pathway is to be found. You go on, guided by
the _sight_ of the sea, when the sky brightens fitfully: and by the
_sound_ of the sea, when you stray instinctively from the edge of the
cliff, as mist and darkness gather once more densely and solemnly all
around you.

Then, when the path appears again--a winding path, that descends
rapidly--you gradually enter on a new scene. Old horses startle you,
scrambling into perilous situations, to pick dainty bits by the
hillside; sheep, fettered by the fore and hind leg, hobble away
desperately as you advance. Suddenly, you discern a small strip of beach
shut in snugly between protecting rocks. A spring bubbles down from an
inland valley; while not far off, an old stone well collects the water
into a calm, clear pool. Sturdy little cottages, built of rough granite,
and thickly thatched, stand near you, with gulls' and cormorants' eggs
set in their loop-holed windows for ornament; great white sections of
fish hang thickly together on their walls to dry, looking more like many
legs of many dirty duck trousers, than anything else; pigsties are
hard-by the cottages, either formed by the Cromlech stones of the
Druids, or excavated like caves in the side of the hill. Down on the
beach, where the rough old fishing-boats lie, the sand is entirely
formed by countless multitudes of the tiniest, fairy-like shells, often
as small as a pin's head, and all exquisitely tender in colour and
wonderfully varied in form. Up the lower and flatter parts of the hills
above, fishing nets are stretched to dry. While you stop to look forth
over the quiet, simple scene, wild little child