_yn_, or it may have been intended for the article in the genitive, _an_. The old rock in the tomb, _i.e._ _in tumbâ_, or the old rock of the tomb, Cornish _carag goz an cloz_, would be intelligible and natural renderings of the Latin _Mons in tumba_. But though this would fully account for the origin of the Cornish name as preserved by Carew, it would still leave the Saxon appellation the “Hore rock in the wodd” unexplained. How could William of Worcester have got hold of this name? Let us remember that William does not mention any Cornish name of the Mount, and that nothing is ever said at his time of the “Hore rock in the wodd” being a translation of an old Cornish name. All we know is that the monks of the Mount used that name, and it is hardly likely that so long and cumbrous a name should ever have been used much by the people in the neighborhood. How the monks of St. Michael’s Mount came to call their place the “Hore rock in the wodd” at the time of William of Worcester, and probably long before his time, is, however, not difficult to explain, after we have seen how they transferred the traditions which originally referred to Mont St. Michel to their own monastery. Having told the story of the “_sylva opacissima_” by which their mount was formerly surrounded to many visitors, as they told it to William of Worcester, the name of the “Hore rock in the wodd” might easily spring up among them, and be kept up within the walls of their priory. Nor is there any evidence that in this peculiar form the name ever spread beyond their walls. But it is possible that here, too, language may have played some tricks. The number of people who used these names and kept them alive can never have been large, and hence they were exposed much more to accidents arising from ignorance and individual caprice than names of villages or towns which are in the keeping of hundreds and thousands of people. The monks of St. Michael’s Mount may in time have forgotten the exact purport of “Cara cowz in clowze,” “the old rock of the tomb,” really the “Mons in tumba;” and their minds being full of the old forest by which they believed _their_ island, like Mont St. Michel, to have been formerly surrounded, what wonder if _cara cowz in clowze_ glided away into _cara clowse in cowze_, and thus came to confirm the old tradition of the forest. For _cowz_ would at once be taken as the modern Cornish word for wood, corresponding to the old Cornish _cuit_, while _clowse_ might, with a little effort, be identified with the Cornish _glos_, gray, the Armorican _glâz_. Carew, it should be observed, sanctions both forms, the original one, _cara cowz in clowze_, “the old rock of the tomb,” and the other _cara clowse in cowze_, meaning possibly “the gray rock in the wood.” The sound of the two is so like that, particularly to the people not very familiar with the language, the substitution of one for the other would come very naturally; and as a reason could more easily be given for