The Giant’s Causeway

The road to the Causeway is bleak, wild, and hilly. It looks like the beginning of the world, somehow: the sea looks older than in other places, the hills and rocks strange, and formed differently from other rocks and hills — as those vast dubious monsters were formed who possessed the earth before man.

The hilltops are shattered into a thousand cragged fantastical shapes; the water comes swelling into scores of little strange creeks, or goes off with a leap, roaring into those mysterious caves yonder, which penetrate who knows how far into our common world.

Come, then, this scene is for our betters to depict. If Mr. Tennyson were to come hither for a month, and brood over the place, he might, in some of those lofty heroic lines which the author of the Morte d’Arthur knows how to pile up, convey to the reader a sense of this desolate scene.