Nothing alive, except the gulls, abode on these solitary shores.

No lighthouse stood on any point, to shake its long, warning light across the mariners' wake.

Now and then a drowned man floated in among the sedge, or a small craft went to pieces on the rocks.

When an easterly wind prevailed, the coast resounded with the bellowing sea, which brought us tidings from those inaccessible spots.

We heard its roar as it leaped over the rocks on Gloster Point, and its long, unbroken wail when it rolled in on Whitefoot Beach.