The whole floor of the cave is occupied by the sea, the depth of which, even at its farthest end, is above six feet, during ebb-tide; but it is only in perfectly calm weather that a boat is able to venture into the interior, for when the sea is any way turbulent (and this is generally the case among the stormy Hebrides) it is in danger of being hurled against the walls of the grot and dashed to pieces. Under these circumstances, the only access into the cave is by a narrow dyke or ledge running along its eastern wall, about fifteen feet above the water. It is formed of truncated basaltic pillars, over which it is necessary to clamber with great caution and dexterity, as they are always moist and slippery from the dashing spray. Frequently there is only room enough for one foot, and while the left hand grasps that of the guide, it is necessary to hold fast with the right to a pillar of the wall. As this difficult path is most dangerous in the darkest part of the cave, but few tourists are bold enough to trust themselves to it, for the least false step must infallibly precipitate the adventurous explorer into the seething caldron below. Sometimes a cormorant, fearless of any accident of this kind, has built his nest upon the top of one of the truncated pillars, which form the pavement of the pathway, and betrays by a peevish hissing his ill humour at being disturbed in his solitary retreat by the intrusion of man. [Illustration: Fingal's Cave.] The narrow path ultimately widens into a more roomy and slanting space formed of the remains of more than a thousand perpendicular truncated shafts. The back wall consists of a range of unequally sized pillars, arranged somewhat like the tubes of an organ. When the waves rush with tumultuous fury into the cave and dash their flakes of snow-white foam against its wall, it seems as if the gigantic instrument, touched by an invisible hand, were loudly singing the triumphs of ocean. Among the beauties of this matchless cave, the clear light must not be forgotten, which, penetrating through the wide portal, produces an agreeable chiaro-oscuro even at its farthest end, so that the eye is able to seize at one glance the full majesty of the splendid hall; nor the pure air which, constantly renewed by the perpetual alternations of the tides, is very different from the chilly dampness which generally reigns in subterranean caverns. When we consider the resemblance which from its regularity this magnificent work of nature bears to a production of human art, we cannot wonder at its having been ascribed to mortal architecture. But as men of ordinary stature seemed too weak for so colossal an enterprise, it was attributed to a race of giants, who constructed it for their chief and leader, Fingal, so renowned in Gaelic mythology. This belief still lingers among the primitive people of the neighbourhood, though some, being averse to pagan Goliahs, ascribe its workmanship to St. Columban.