Four miles from Penzance is Marazion, and St. Michael’s Mount, lying near at hand, takes its name from the similar but larger and more imposing cathedral-crowned headland off the coast of France.  It is a remarkable granite rock, connected with the mainland by a strip of sand, which is clear of the water only four hours of the day.  The rock towers to a height of two hundred and fifty feet and is about a mile in circumference.  It is not strange that in the days of castle-building such an isolated site should have been seized upon; and on the summit is a many-towered structure built of granite and so carefully adapted to its location as to seem almost a part of the rock itself.  When we reached Marazion, the receding tide had left the causeway dry, and as we walked leisurely the mile or so between the town and the mount, the water was already stealthily encroaching on the pathway.  We found the castle more of a gentleman’s residence than a fortress, and it was evidently never intended for defensive purposes.  It has been the residence of the St. Aubyn family since the time of Charles II, and the villagers were all agog over elaborate preparations to celebrate the golden wedding anniversary of the present proprietor.  The climb is a wearisome one, and we saw little of the castle, being admitted only to the entrance-hall and the small Gothic chapel, which was undergoing restoration; but the fine view from the battlements alone is worth the effort.  The castle never figured in history and is remarkable chiefly for its unique location.  By the time of our return the tide had already risen several feet and we were rowed to the mainland in a boat.

On our return to Truro we took the road by which we came, but on leaving there our road roughly followed the Northern Cornish coast, and at intervals we caught glimpses of the ocean.  For some distance we ran through a rough moorland country, although the road was comparatively level and straight.  We passed Camelford—­which some say is the Camelot of the Arthur legends—­only five miles distant from the ruins of Tintagel Castle on the coast, and came early to Launceston, where the clean hospitable-looking White Hart Hotel offered strong inducements to stop for the night.  A certain weariness of the flesh, resulting from our run over the last long stretch of the moorland road, was an equally important factor in influencing our action.

[Illustration:  On Dartmoor.

From Water Color by Vincent.]

Launceston was one of the surprises that we frequently came across—­a town that we had never heard of before and doubtless one that an American seldom sees.  Yet the massive castle, whose circular keep crowns an eminence overlooking the town, was one of the objects that loomed into view long before we reached the place, and its gloomy grandeur, as we wandered through its ruins in the fading twilight, deeply impressed us.  A rude stairway led to the top of the great