venerable edifice all newly done up in pink frescoes,-yes, and with an ornate bell-rope of scarlet twist hanging beneath the tower!

The harbor of Boscastle is a rock-walled inlet somewhat resembling that of Passajes in the north of Spain. Curving promontories shut in a tidal stream that runs green in the sun and purple in the shadow. Swift lines of creaming foam glint across where the little river yields itself up to the strong currents of the sea,- —a sea which, as we saw it that brilliant September afternoon, twinkled with a myriad points of intolerable light.

It is a pity not to have time to suggest the softer beauties of the south coast. From Truro, after a visit to its brand-new cathedral with its holy memory of Henry Martyn, we drove by way of Sunny Cove to Malpas. The gulls were screaming as they sought their dinner on the flats, and a man, wading through the pools, was gathering up belated little fishes in his hands. We sailed between wooded banks down the Fal to Falmouth, which is watched over by the garrisoned castle looming on Pendennis Head. The old port lies in picturesque disorder along the inlet, while the new town stands handsomely on the height above. Here we saw, in lawns and gardens, a semi-tropical vegetation, yuccas, acacias, bamboos, aloes, palms and pampas grass. Would there were time to tell the smuggling scandals of the Killigrews that witty and graceless family who ought to have learned better from their Quaker neighbors, the Foxes! It was by a Killigrew that Falmouth was founded in the reign of the first Stuart, and Killigrews made merry in Arwenach House, and made free with the merchandise of foreign ships, for many a pleasant year. The time when piracy could be counted an aristocratic amusement has gone by in Falmouth, as well as the bustling days when this port was an important packet station whence coaches and postchaises went speeding up to London. It is now putting on gentler graces and coming into repute as a winter resort, though it has not yet attained the popularity of Penzance.

On our way from the one to the other we passed through the mining town of Redruth, near which, in the hollow known as Gwennap Pit, Wesley addressed vast audiences. On one occasion the number was reckoned as twentytwo thousand. "I shall scarce see a larger congregation," he wrote, "till we meet in the air." The more mystical doctrines of Fox took little hold on the rough fishermen and miners of Cornwall, but Wesley practically converted the Duchy, turning it from the most lawless corner of England, a lair of smugglers and wreckers, into a sober, well-conducted community. As little flames are said to be seen playing about a converted Cornishman, Wesley's path across the country must have been a veritable Milky Way. In such natural amphitheaters as Gwennap Pit, it may be that the Cornish Miracle Plays, so far excelling the English in freedom of fancy and symbolic suggestion, were given. We looked wistfully from Hayle over to St. Ives, with its long line of fishing craft tied up like horses to a church fence, but since we could follow only one road at once, held on our way to Penzance.

Beautiful for situation, the "Holy Headland" looks out over waters exquisitely colored toward

"the great Vision of the Guarded Mount."

St. Michael's Mount, a solemn cone, fortress-crowned, above which a praying hermit, when the setting sun was flooding the skies with splendor, might easily have deemed he saw the guardian wings of the Archangel.

The view ranges on across Mount's Bay to The Lizard, that peninsula so beautiful with its serpentine cliffs and Cornish heath, the wildest and loneliest part of all wild and lonely Cornwall; but our route lay to its companion point on the south-west.

As we neared Penberth Cove, the Atlantic opened out to view, its sparkling turquoise relieved by one white sail. The valley runs green to the sea and we left the carriage for a walk across the fields, a walk diversified by stiles of all known species, to Treryn Castle. This monstrous fast

ness of tumbled rock and jagged crag was built by a giant who was such a clever necromancer that all he had to do was to sit in the Giant's Easy-chair, to whose comfort we can testify, and will the castle to rise out of the sea. For latter-day necromancy, our guide pointed out Porthcurnow Beach, where, he said, six submarine cables land. He was a native of the coast, a fisherman, and gave us eyes to see the gulls rejoicing over their feast of pilchards and ears to hear the whistle of a young otter. The lion of Treryn is the Logan Rock, but we first encountered, in our scramble over the crags, Lady Logan, a stumpy personage whose hood and skirt, though recognizable, are of the Stone Age fashion. This granite beauty is so sensitive in her feelings that she trembles at a touch,—if it be vigorous enough. As we climbed' higher among the rocks, in the exhilarating air, we won views ever more wonderful of rolling green billows shattered into clouds of spray upon the shore. The Logan itself is an enormous rocking-stone,-a boulder weighing some seventy tons delicately balanced on cubical masses of rock. It does not, like the rocking-stone in Burma on which a little pagoda has been built, oscillate in the wind, but swings at a sturdy push. It was formerly more easily swayed than now, for a mischievous young Goldsmith, nephew of the poet who was himself so prankishly inclined, undertoook in 1824, when commanding a revenue cutter off this coast, to dispel the popular notion that no human force could dislodge Logan Rock. On the eighth of April, though the first would have been more appropriate, he landed with a crew of eight men, meaning to tip the stone over into the sea. But he succeeded only in moving it some four feet to the left and, even so, found his escapade an expensive one, for it cost ten thousand dollars to replace the ponderous mass-as the anger of the people compelled the Admiralty to order him to do—on its original pivot. With all his efforts, he could not hit the perfect poise, and whereas Logan Rock once had the power of healing sick children who were rocked upon it, that spell no longer works. It

was not the right hour for us to ascertain whether touching the stone thrice three times would still make a woman a witch. This test should be undertaken at midnight, when a battalion of sympathetic hags, mounted on stems of ragwort, would be hooting encouragement from their favorite rendezvous at the towering crag south of Logan Rock known as Castle Peak.

We returned to our carriage and drove on. The fields of gorse and heather suddenly slipped over foaming reefs and we were at Land's End. Great waves were churning themselves white against the ledges. A few sails glinted on the horizon; a few gulls were perching on the rocks; but we were, at first, aware of nothing save the steep, broken wall of granite and the strange, compelling song of the Atlantic. By degrees we noted lighthouses, bays, and a curious cavern, with such wave-eaten arches as we had seen at Biarritz, beneath our very feet. We walked along the edge of the cliffs, green with turf to the sheer plunge. At places, indeed, the heather runs down the rocks to meet the tide. We passed close by gulls that stood unstartled in this their own domain of crags and spray-dashed gorges, eying severely the approach of uninvited guests.

The sun was setting, and we could distinguish the Scilly Isles like gold cloudlets resting on the sea. Between these islands and Land's End once bloomed the lost Arthurian realms of Lyonesse. But weary of the past and its dim fables, our hearts followed the rippling line of splendor farther and farther west, far out across the Atlantic to the land of hope and promise, the strong young land that fronts the future, vowed to the great adventure of human brotherhood.

BIBLIOGRAPHY.

SOMERSET: Blackmore, R. D., Lorna Doone. Rideing, W. H., "In the Country of Lorna Doone," New England Magazine, 1894. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor: Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The Eolian Harp, Monody on the Death of Chatterton. Tennyson, Alfred: The Holy Grail, Sir Galahad, Ode for the Duke of Wellington. Wordsworth, William, Sonnet on the Dissolution of the Monasteries. Goldsmith, Oliver, Life of Richard Nash, of Bath,

Esq. Austin, Jane, Northanger Abbey. Burney, Frances, Evelina. Van Rensselaer, Mrs. Schuyler, English Cathedrals (Wells and others). Freeman, E. A., History of the Cathedral Church of Wells. Doyle, Conan, Micah Clarke (Battle Sedgemoor). Hunt, William, Bristol (Historic Town Series).

DEVON AND CORNWALL: Norway, Arthur H., Highways and Byways in Devon and Cornwall.

DEVON : Freeman, E. A., Exeter (Historic Town Series). Kingsley, Charles, Westward Ho (and other romances). Blackmore, R. D., A Maid of Sker (and other romances). Phillpotts, Eden: Children of the Mist, An American Prisoner (and other romances). Gould, S. Baring, Dartmoor Idyls. James, Henry, Transatlantic Sketches (Exeter and Wells Cathedrals, Lynton, Lynmouth, etc.). Hardy, Thomas, A Pair of Blue Eyes, The Trumpet Major. Tennyson, (Lord) Alfred, Ballad of The Revenge. Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, Sir Humphrey Gilbert. Ingelow, Jean, Winstanley. Page, John L. N.: An Exploration of Dartmoor and its Antiquities; An Exploration of Exmoor and the Hill Country of West Somerset (Seeley & Co., London, 1889); The Rivers of Devon from Source to Sea (Seeley & Co., London, 1893); The Coasts of Devon and Lundy Island (Cox, London, 1895); The North Coast of Cornwall (Hemmons, Bristol, 1897).

CORNWALL: Hunt, Robert, Popular Romances of the West of England. Tennyson, Alfred, The Passing of Arthur. Malory, Thomas, Le Morte D'Arthur, XXI, 4-5. Baring-Gould, S., John Herrick A West of England Romance; In the Road of the Sea (a Romance of the Cornish Coast). Southey, Robert, The Well of St. Keyne. Hawker, R. S., The Cornish Ballads. Quiller-Couch, A. T., The Delectable Duchy. Besant, Walter, Armorel of Lyonesse.