The searchlight. [volume] (Culbertson, Mont.) 1902-current, 1910-10-07

We came to the cliff top. And there
my companion turned to observe In
my face the effect It made upon my
mind. Long has he loved II, often has
he scaled Its most dangerous peaks
and descended to Chamber over It's
rocks and explore It's echoing caves.
but always 1t Is with fresh delight and
a new intaking OF enthusiasm. The
gulls wheeled over our heads, bank
OF fog came toward us out OF busy
sea. the waves Numbered and roared
low US. and there. stretching away In
sombre majesty and lonely beauty.
stood the great shattered cliffs OF Cor.
nish granite, a fortress built by Ma
ture for herself. Out of the mist they
rose In splendid melancholy. not
smooth and polished. not kind and
pastoral. but with look Of human
suffering. an expression OF immemcr.
ial grief, spirit of Promethean en-
durance-rocks. terrible. awful and
pitiless.
In one place they suggest that q
race OF Titans have brought here the
wreckage OF all the castles and cathe-
drals ever erected on the earth and
flung them down In giant confusion;
you can see great flying buttress
projecting from the cliff. a mighty
tower broken In half upon the rocks,
pinnicies. arches. pillars and tracery
hurled upon the sands. and whole
walls still standing. but at wild angles
against the cliff itself. You can see
the runins of Shakespeare's proud
buildings" and In the rusty linchen SEQ
the smear of dust upon their glitter
ing golden towers. And. II you know
aught OF the history Of this terrible
coast, you can read on the heaped
boulders and In the Jagged spikes of
snarling rocks the tale OF great ships
beaten and smashed to matchwood In
ten minutes of the clock. All that Vic
tor Hugo ever wrote OF the terrors of
the sea and the ferocity of rocky coasts
comes crowdinE and insistent into
your mind a. you stand ON the lonely
cliff and let the spirit OF the scene
scar itself into your soul.
Rocks are perhops the grandest of
Natures works. Cliffs of white chalk
are pleasant on a summer day and In
the poetry OF our island patriotism
have q sweet and tender place: but
cliffs Of ragged granite. marked with
all the rayages Of time. carved by
the winds and chisseled by the rains"
as Mr.. Folliott Stokes says of these
very cliffs. better bring homo to the
mind the majesty OF Nature. Truer Il
would be. perhaps. to say OF these
torn by the winds and ravaged by the
rains. for there has been no purpose.
no design in their ha.dl.ng, only the
feroeity OF destruction. And here they
stand. terrible. majestic. gorgeous and
awful: facing death with endurance
and regarding wind and sea and rain
with Indifference: lifting their scared
but unbowed heads to the heavens.
their ruins piled In confusion at their
roots: like men enduring the oppug.
nance of Nature. and on the dust OF
the centuries facing eternity without
dismay. The spirit OF these cliffs Ii
the spirit Of the Sphinx.
And this In what makes the cliffs Of
Cornwall so delightful q walking
ground. They are full of enticements
not to walk. You may set out with all
the intention In tho world to reach a
certain point. to do 80 many miles, to
keep such and such . pace. but the
little coves disclosing themselves at
every swerve OF the cliffs win charm
you like syrens to the sands below.
And so onward you ramble. saunter.
loiter, lounge, and even battle, till the
sun sinks to his couch and appetite
turns you home. It may be that you
have gone scarcely = mile from your
starting point. but you have descended
and assembled . score Of times. every
muscle In the body has had its work.
and the soul u satisfied. You return
full Of Joy and splendidly tired.
saARoLD BEoDiE