One place, where I tremble to think I have been, struck me as quite awful: helped by an iron-handed sailor, who comforts you in the dizzy scramble with "Never fear, sir, you shan't fall, unless I fall too," you fearfully pick your way to the extreme end, where it goes slick down, and lying prostrate on the slippery granite (which looks disjointed everywhere, and as if it would fall with you, bodily) with head strained over you see under you a dreadful cavern, open nearly to where you are, up which roars the white and angry sea.

O brother David, and foot-tingling Sire, never can you take that look; and never would I again.

Only think of tipping over! ugh .-- Into the gig again, beside my shrewd Sam Weller driver, and away.

Here and there about this part of Cornwall are studded rude stone crosses, probably of the time of St.Colomba, as they are similar to those at Iona: about two or three feet high, and very rude.

In one place, I noticed what seemed to be a headless female figure, perhaps the Virgin, and as large as life: my Jehu said he had heard that it once had a head.