CAPE CORNWALL, 93 
called The Brisons, rising abruptly from the sea 
upwards of 60 feet at high water, I have seen 
these nearly hidden by the foam and spray of 
the waves as they break roaring against them. 
But Cape Cornwall is best in a calm. Descend- 
ing by a steep path cut in the rock, you enter 
upon a bay, into which the waters come lazily 
with a lapping, lulling sound, gurgling round the 
boulders of rock, and swelling out the beds of 
the streams which trickle from the heights. Gulls, 
with their soft white plumage, wheel in gentle 
flights above your head. The air is soft and 
balmy as in Italy ; and if you will, you may pass 
hour after hour in the delicious calm of perfect 
repose — repose unbroken even by a dream. But 
also, if you will, as I did, you may leave your com- 
panions, and stroll on and on, peering into sea-caves 
and old shafts of mines, till you light upon — not 
a gull or bird of any sort — but a lad, whose bright 
eyes shine with keen intelligence out of a copper- 
coloured face, and whose hands, face, and clothes 
are all of the same copper hue. A quick glance 
