Stonehenge, in Wiltshire, with one bigger than the rest in the
middle. They stand about twelve feet asunder, but have no
inscription; neither does tradition offer to leave any part of
their history upon record, as whether it was a trophy or a monument
of burial, or an altar for worship, or what else; so that all that
can be learned of them is that here they are. The parish where
they stand is called Boscawone, from whence the ancient and
honourable family of Boscawen derive their names.
Near Penzance, but open to the sea, is that gulf they call Mount’s
Bay; named so from a high hill standing in the water, which they
call St. Michael’s Mount: the seamen call it only the Cornish
Mount. It has been fortified, though the situation of it makes it
so difficult of access that, like the Bass in Scotland, there needs
no fortification; like the Bass, too, it was once made a prison for
prisoners of State, but now it is wholly neglected. There is a
very good road here for shipping, which makes the town of Penzance
be a place of good resort.
A little up in the county towards the north-west is Godolchan,
which though a hill, rather than a town, gives name to the noble
and ancient family of Godolphin; and nearer on the northern coast
is Royalton, which since the late Sydney Godolphin, Esq., a younger
brother of the family, was created Earl of Godolphin, gave title of
Lord to his eldest son, who was called Lord Royalton during the
life of his father. This place also is infinitely rich in tin-
mines.
I am now at my journey’s end. As to the islands of Scilly, which
lie beyond the Land’s End, I shall say something of them presently.
I must now return SUR MES PAS, as the French call it; though not
literally so, for I shall not come back the same way I went. But
as I have coasted the south shore to the Land’s End, I shall come
back by the north coast, and my observations in my return will
furnish very well materials for another letter.
APPENDIX TO LAND’S END.
I have ended this account at the utmost extent of the island of
Great Britain west, without visiting those excrescences of the
island, as I think I may call them–viz., the rocks of Scilly; of
which what is most famous is their infamy or reproach; namely, how
many good ships are almost continually dashed in pieces there, and
how many brave lives lost, in spite of the mariners’ best skill, or
the lighthouses’ and other sea-marks’ best notice.
These islands lie so in the middle between the two vast openings of
the north and south narrow seas (or, as the sailors call them, the
Bristol Channel, and The Channel–so called by way of eminence)
that it cannot, or perhaps never will, be avoided but that several
ships in the dark of the night and in stress of weather, may, by
being out in their reckonings, or other unavoidable accidents,
mistake; and if they do, they are sure, as the sailors call it, to
run “bump ashore” upon Scilly, where they find no quarter among the
breakers, but are beat to pieces without any possibility of escape.
One can hardly mention the Bishop and his Clerks, as they are
called, or the rocks of Scilly, without letting fall a tear to the
memory of Sir Cloudesley Shovel and all the gallant spirits that
were with him, at one blow and without a moment’s warning dashed
into a state of immortality–the admiral, with three men-of-war,
and all their men (running upon these rocks right afore the wind,
and in a dark night) being lost there, and not a man saved. But
all our annals and histories are full of this, so I need say no
more.
They tell us of eleven sail of merchant-ships homeward bound, and
richly laden from the southward, who had the like fate in the same
place a great many years ago; and that some of them coming from
Spain, and having a great quantity of bullion or pieces of eight on
board, the money frequently drives on shore still, and that in good