I felt thirsty, so wandered to the house and sat down and poured myself out a bottle of Bass, and as I drank it, became aware of the presence of my dog, who placed his muzzle in my hand and looked into my face with positively tears in his dear old eyes.  Why, after all, I was not alone.  No, here was a friend indeed (teste Byron), who would be ever by my side in weal and woe.  “Poor dog, are you hungry then?” Yes he was, and by the bye, why should I not try something?  We ate; and in half an hour—­such is the changeableness of the human mind—­I was as happy as a sand-boy (whatever that may be), as I wandered by the sunny shore.

I would make a tour of inspection of my estate; and, reader, if you will kindly accompany me, I will show you the different sights of my little island.

Jethou, I must premise, is about half a mile long by a quarter wide.  It rises steeply from the sea all round, except at the North end, where the slope is somewhat gentle.  It is a dome-shaped mass, rising at the summit to a height of nearly three hundred feet.  It may serve to give a good idea of its form if I liken it to a huge dish cover (a Britannia metal one, if you will, for it is crown property), as it is very symmetrical when viewed from a distance.  It is, in fact, a huge bosom-like hill, around which three paths are cut; the first varying from fifty to a hundred feet above the sea, the second averages one hundred and fifty feet above high water, and another runs round perhaps fifty feet higher still.  These paths at certain points are connected by other paths, so that one may readily get from one elevation to another, except where the island is unusually steep, when zig-zag paths have to be negotiated.  In one part seven or eight zig-zags have to be walked to rise to an elevation of about sixty or seventy feet, so steep is the south end of the island.  At the north-west rises a curious pyramidal mass of granite, about one hundred and twenty feet above high water, called Crevicon, which may be reached on foot at low tide or even quarter flood; but after the tide once gets above the boulders it comes in like a mill race, rising at times during certain winds as much as seven feet within the hour; so that one may be cut off from the main island in a very few minutes, as it would be madness to try and cross during a heavy sea, whatever excellent swimming powers one might possess, as the rush of the tide would sweep one away like a straw.

Strange to say, there is another of these vast piles of granite, but of greater altitude and bulk, at the south end of the island, with just such a race of water running between it and the mainland after the tide turns.  It is called La Fauconnaire, or the Falconry, and approaches two hundred feet in height, and very difficult of ascent.  Each of these rock-islands is surmounted by a stone beacon in form of a miniature lighthouse tower (without the lantern story), about fifteen feet high.  These beacons serve seamen as landmarks, from which to take bearings, and to warn them of the danger of a too near approach to this dreadful coast—­or rather coasts—­for all these islands are terrible places in rough weather.