There are few pieces of coast scenery in England so little familiar to the tourist as the northern shores of Cornwall. Unexplored, yet well worth exploring, that bleak district still happily remains a “land beyond railways.” Of the treasures it has in store for the geologist, or the lover of natural history, it would be superfluous here to speak; suffice it to say, that, in the shape of cliff castles and tumuli, it presents to the antiquary one continued series of objects of interest. Along the whole line there is scarcely a high piece of cliff or a promontory which does not bear on its rough crest some landmark of pre-historic times. So rapidly, however, is the work of denudation going on, that even within the memory of those now living many a tumulus has fallen a prey to the sea, carrying with it, probably, the bones of some ancient rover, thus rudely restored to that element on which, centuries ago, his bark so gallantly rode. To quote one of the most striking examples of the encroachment of the sea since man left his traces on the cliff, I will take the instance of a “cliff castle” three miles to the north of the town of Camborne. This fortification, in common with all these singular entrenchments, was raised for purposes of defence against the land side, and consists of a double line of earthworks drawn across the neck of what was once a promontory some 70 paces broad. Within these ramparts, where once no doubt there was ample space to accommodate the whole defending force, there is now nothing but a precipice descending abruptly to the sea, some 300 feet below, and leaving scarcely standing room for a single individual between it and the inner side of the earthwork. I mention this instance of the rapidity of the process of denudation on this coast because, from their close proximity to the edge of a similar cliff, it is highly probable that in another half century the very barrows I am about to describe will have shared the same fate.