r way to Corcuvion.  I satisfied our host by presenting him with a
couple of _pesetas_, and he requested as a favour, that if on our return
we passed that way, and were overtaken by the night, we would again take
up our abode beneath his roof.  This I promised, at the same time
determining to do my best to guard against the contingency; as sleeping
in the loft of a Gallegan hut, though preferable to passing the night on
a moor or mountain, is anything but desirable.

So we again started at a rapid pace along rough bridle-ways and
footpaths, amidst furze and brushwood.  In about an hour we obtained a
view of the sea, and, directed by a lad whom we found on the moor
employed in tending a few miserable sheep, we bent our course to the
north-west, and at length reached the brow of an eminence, where we
stopped for some time to survey the prospect before us.

It was not without reason that the Latins gave the name of _Finis terræ_
to this district.  We had arrived exactly at such a place as in my
boyhood I had pictured to myself as the termination of the world, beyond
which there was a wild sea, or abyss, or chaos.  I now saw far before me
an immense ocean, and below me a long and irregular line of lofty and
precipitous coast.  Certainly in the whole world there is no bolder coast
than the Gallegan shore, from the debouchement of the Minho to Cape
Finisterre.  It consists of a granite wall of savage mountains, for the
most part serrated at the top, and occasionally broken, where bays and
firths like those of Vigo and Pontevedra intervene, running deep into the
land.  These bays and firths are invariably of an immense depth, and
sufficiently capacious to shelter the navies of the proudest maritime
nations.

There is an air of stern and savage grandeur in everything around, which
strongly captivates the imagination.  This savage coast is the first
glimpse of Spain which the voyager from the north catches, or he who has
ploughed his way across the wide Atlantic: and well does it seem to
realize all his visions of this s