19 2 By Stream and Sea. 



will be in slight measure avenged. About the hotel at the 

 Causeway you are worried by men, boys, and women, to 

 purchase boxes of what they term "specimens of mineral 

 odds and ends," some of which are very ingeniously 

 manufactured. 



The guides — boatmen at whose charges everybody 

 grumbles, but who, having a monopoly, are indispensable — 

 are steeped to the lips with giant lore, and they talk as if 

 they believed the pretty stories which they dispense wholesale 

 and retail. You enter a long cave, into which the sea 

 gallops for a hundred yards or more, and in the gloom, 

 surrounded by slime, and with the hollow moan of the 

 waves stealing up the roof, the guide runs off the reel a yarn 

 touching a giant hermit, a meek monster, who took a fancy 

 to pray and fast in a sea-cave, solemnly vowing not to touch 

 food brought by mortal hand. These eccentric suicidal 

 intentions were baffled by a seal, who was evidently cut out 

 for the legal profession. The beast, it is alleged, swam into 

 the cave with food, and the giant, persuaded by a touch of 

 the flipper that the clause as to mortal hands remained 

 inviolate, fell to upon the rations thus providently sealed 

 and delivered, and lived to a green old age. 



Half-way up the highest cliff you will see a grand collec- 

 tion of pillars of various lengths, and the name is not inapt 

 — the Giant's Organ. Some distance to the west there 

 stands a figure marvellously resembling a crooked old 

 woman. This is the Giant's granny, who for some dire 

 offence was turned into stone without hope of remedy. 

 The magnificent half-circles of columns, which are the next 

 great sight to Pleaskin, are the Giant's Amphitheatre, where 

 Fin MacCoul would feast a select party of the sons of Anak 

 of that period, grouping them around him on basaltic seats 

 and rocky benches, which remain to this day. The semi- 



