I cannot advise Marazion as a bathing place. What a down-come from the picturesque¹ vision of last night, to a small ugly fishy-smelling beach, which seemed to form a part of the town and its business, and was overlooked from everywhere! Yet on it two or three family groups were evidently preparing for a dip, or rather a wade² of about a quarter of a mile in exceedingly dirty sea water.  
"This will never do," we said to our old Norwegian. "You must row us to some quiet cove³ along the shore, and away from the town."
 
He nodded his head, solemn and mute as the dumb boatman of dead Elaine, rowed us out seaward for about half-a-mile, and then proceeded to fasten the boat to a big stone, and walk ashore⁴. The water still did not come much above his knees—he seemed quite indifferent to it. But we?
 
Well, we could but do at Rome as the Romans do. Toilette in an open boat was evidently the custom of the country. And the sun was warm, the sea safe and shallow. Indeed, so rapidly did it subside⁵, that by the time the bath was done, we were aground, and had to call at the top of our voices to our old man, who sat, with his back to us, dim in the distance, on another big stone, calmly smoking the pipe of peace.
 
"We'll not try this again," was the unanimous resolve, as, after politely declining a suggestion that "the ladies should walk ashore—" did he think we were amphibious?—we got ourselves floated off at last, and rowed to the nearest landing point, the entrance to St. Michael's Mount.
 
Probably nowhere in England is found the like of this place. Such a curious mingling⁶ of a mediæval fortress⁷ and modern residence; of antiquarian treasures and everyday business; for at the foot of the rock is a fishing village of about thirty cottages, which carries on a thriving trade; and here also is a sort of station for the tiny underground-railway, which worked by a continuous chain, fulfils the very necessary purpose (failing Giant Cormoran, and wife) of carrying up coals, provisions, luggage, and all other domestic necessaries to the hill top.
 
Thither⁸ we climbed by a good many weary steps, and thought, delightful⁹ as it may be to dwell on the top of a rock in the midst of the sea, like eagles in an eyrie, there are certain advantages in living on a level country road, or even in a town street. How in the world do the St. Aubyns manage when they go out to dinner? Two years afterwards, when I read in the paper that one of the daughters of the house, leaning over the battlements, had lost her balance and fallen down, mercifully unhurt, to the rocky slope below—the very spot where we to-day sat so quietly gazing out on the lovely sea view—I felt with a shudder¹¹ that on the whole, it would be a trying thing to bring up a young family on St. Michael's Mount.
 
Still, generation after generation of honourable¹² St. Aubyns have brought up their families there, and oh! what a beautiful spot it is! How fresh, and yet mild blew the soft sea-wind outside of it, and inside, what endless treasures there were for the archæological mind! The chapel¹³ alone was worth a morning's study, even though shown—odd anachronism—by a footman in livery, who pointed¹⁴ out with great gusto the entrance to a vault¹⁵ discovered during the last repairs, where was found the skeleton of a large man—his bones only—no clue whatever as to who he was or when imprisoned¹⁶ there. The "Jeames" of modern days told us this tale with a noble indifference¹⁷. Nothing of the kind was likely to happen to him.
 
Further still we were fortunate enough to penetrate¹⁸, and saw the Chevy Chase Hall, with its cornice of hunting scenes, the drawing-room, the school-room—only fancy learning lessons there, amidst the veritable evidence of the history one was studying! And perhaps the prettiest bit of it all was our young guide, herself a St. Aubyn, with her simple grace and sweet courtesy, worthy¹⁹ of one of the fair ladies worshipped by King Arthur's knights²⁰.
 
We did not like encroaching on her kindness, though we could have stayed all day, admiring the curious things she showed us. So we descended²¹ the rock, and crossed the causeway, now dry, but very rough walking—certainly St. Michael's Mount has its difficulties as a modern dwelling-house—and went back to our inn. For, having given our horse a forenoon's rest, we planned a visit to that spot immortalised by nursery rhyme—
 
 
"As I was going to St. Ives
I met a man with seven wives.
Each wife had seven sacks;
Each sack had seven cats;
Each cat had seven kits²³;
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,—
How many were there going to St. Ives?"
 
—One; and after we had been there, we felt sure he never went again!
 
There were two roads, we learnt, to that immortal²² town; one very good, but dull; the other bad—and beautiful. We chose the latter, and never repented²⁵.
 
Nor, in passing through Penzance, did we repent²⁴ not having taken up our quarters there. It was pretty, but so terribly "genteel," so extremely civilised. Glancing up at the grand hotel, we thought with pleasure of our old-fashioned inn at Marazion, where the benign²⁶ waiter took quite a fatherly interest in our proceedings²⁷, even to giving us for dinner our very own blackberries, gathered yesterday on the road, and politely hindering another guest from helping²⁸ himself to half a dishful, as "they belonged to the young ladies." Truly, there are better things in life than fashionable hotels.
 
But the neighbourhood of Penzance is lovely. Shrubs²⁹ and flowers such as one sees on the shores of the Mediterranean³⁰ grew and flourished in cottage-gardens, and the forest trees we drove under, whole avenues of them, were very fine; gentlemen's seats appeared here and there, surrounded with the richest vegetation, and commanding lovely views. As the road gradually mounted upwards³¹, we saw, clear as in a panorama³², the whole coast from the Lizard³³ Point to the Land's End,—which we should behold³⁴ to-morrow.
 
For, hearing that every week-day about a hundred tourists in carriages, carts, and omnibuses, usually flocked thither, we decided³⁵ that the desire of our lives, the goal of our pilgrimage, should be visited by us on a Sunday. We thought that to drive us thither in solitary³⁶ Sabbatic peace would be <............