Yet another garden,! not far from the last, I must not fail Sunrise 
to touch upon, although a garden so small that an impetuous and Sunset 
visitor, rushing down upon it from the heights above, might be 
tempted to imagine that he was himself the discoverer of it, one 
over which an exceptionally endearing shade of memory seems 
just now to hang. The house belonging to this garden is 
placed so nearly perpendicularly below it as to be invisible, 
and as you stand upon its little terrace and look around you, 
not a roof, or sign of habitation of any sort save the white 
lighthouse upon its point, is anywhere to be seen. Of an early 
summer’s morning, when beams are slanting capriciously about 
amongst the peaks of granite, and when the Gorse and Thyme 
are waking up to smile under a new sun, it would need an excep- 
tionally strong abuse of language to lay oneself open to the 
charge of over-extolling its beauty. Towards sunset hour 
again—whether dead calm and long red lights, or a hustle 
and bustle of rather sharp-edged breezes are the prevailing 
notes—the shore and the fine gray line of mountains opposite 
alike keep their own unassailable charm. Best perhaps of all 
is it if the explorer has energy to mount the little hill once 
more after dark, or under a young, half-grown moon. Then 
in the hollow depths below him he will see one after another 
red sparks—like nothing so much as the fireflies of the south— 
stealing stealthily towards him over the invisible water. Nearer 
and nearer still, till, rounding the nearest bit of headland, they 
disappear towards where the mouth of the river is awaiting 
them. 
But space dwindles apace, is reduced now to a mere hands- 
breadth, yet scarcely a quarter of the gardens, even within our 
1 Carig Braec. 
21 
