But this is a turning out of the path; let us on to Land’s End, up Newlyn’s lanes, whose inhabitants fall into poses as the artist passes along, so sophisticated are these one-time simple folk become.

Here winding lanes lead up to the highroad, through a country where “stone walls do not a prison make,” but are fashioned into hedges; where, as you near the end of all things, trees become scarce as corn proverbially was in Egypt aforetime, finally ceasing altogether, incapable of withstanding the strenuous salt winds from the Atlantic.

The villages you pass—as Saint Buryan and Saint Sennen, storm-beaten and ashen-grey, wear a rugged, uncanny look, that brightens into cheerfulness only in the strongest sunshine of summer, when they become even as Saharas for dryness.

The road takes its way past Crowz-an-Wra—name of horrid seeming—on to a level bounded by the trim hills of Bartinney—Chapel Carn BrÊ in one direction, and rounded off by the watery horizon on the other, past the Quakers’ Burial Ground, a little parallelogram of moorland walled in with walls of grey lichen-stained granite, without door or gateway of any kind—a dismal spot, overgrown with rank grasses. Abandon hope all ye who inter here!

Passing through the desolation of Sennen village, with its grey granite church, in whose little graveyard lie many dead sailors and fishermen, in less than a mile you come to the westernmost point of England. Here, with the growth of touring, modern enterprise has supplanted the Sennen Inn, the original First and Last Inn in England, according which way you fare. A large building, close by the cliff’s edge, has usurped the old sign, and here the Penzance coaches set down their loads of sightseers to consume sandwiches and a variety of liquids upon the short grass.

Now, Land’s End is a spot that has little beyond its alleged farthest projection to the west to recommend it. Other points of this wild coast are grander than this place of stunted cliffs overlooking the Longships Lighthouse, with a dim glance at Scilly lying athwart the sunset. Carn Kenidjack and Cape Cornwall, for instance, to the northward, are grander, loftier, and more precipitous. The sea thunders upon the shore in their sandy coves, while here the cliffs drop sheer into the water, and you are cheated of a foreground.

But, as the chartographers have it, this is the end of all things, and therefore it is honoured of brake-parties, who sit upon the grassy cliff-top, and hold unpremeditated picnics. What of beauty the place possesses is (more or less) pleasingly diversified with broken bottles and other relics of these al fresco feasts, and miscalled “guides” hover about seeking whom they may devour.

Ugh! the greasy paper and the broken glass of Land’s End. Let us go and have tea at the First and Last House in England—the third of them. Breezy, isn’t it? Rain! by all that’s holy. Don’t put your umbrella up, you, mister, unless you want to be blown away into the sea. Come now, hold on tightly to this wall, and take advantage of the next lull to rush into the doorway.... That’s it.... Now, ma’am, let’s have tea, an’—er—bring me a pair o’ bellows, will you? I haven’t a breath left in my body.

Now, to examine the visitors’ books. I take it kindly of these good folk, d’you know, that they have compassion upon the aspirations of the crowd: it were hard indeed upon the Briton to deny him all means of recording his visits here. There is no suitable substance upon which he can carve his name, and the date upon which he honoured Ultima Thule with his presence: the common (or Birmingham) penknife makes no impression upon granite rocks: there is never a tree for miles around: turf is readily cut, but, by reason of its growing, affords but a fleeting means of commemoration.

But stay, you have only to take your tea at the little tea-house to be free of those visitors’ books. Also the interior walls of its rooms are whitewashed. I need scarce point out the significance of this fact. While you partake of tea, you can read the volumes already filled up: other people have evidently done the same thing, for those pages are become very horrid; rich in crumbs, flattened currants, fragments of egg-shells, tea-stains, and transparent finger-marks. Some of those pages stick together like Scots in London (or anywhere out of Scotland); you can have no scruple in separating them; they—the pages, not the Scots, are only stuck together by fortuitous fragments of butter. Mem.—Napkins are not supplied by your hosts, and it would be a pity to soil your handkerchief. Therefore, wipe your fingers in the visitors’ book, being careful in the selection of a page, in case you leave your fingers in worse case than before. Having done this, you can go through the written pages and scribble insulting remarks upon the folks whose names and observations you find there. They’ll be hurt when next they come here, and see your comments, and any friends of theirs will be pleased at your ribaldries—people always like candid criticisms of their friends. Of course, you really don’t want to please anybody; but, unfortunately, it cannot sometimes be helped.

And now let’s get back to Penzance. We walked here, but it’s raining so hard that we must ride back. The brakes are just starting. “Hi, there! wait a minute: we’re coming along.” “Can’t take you, sir, we’re full up.” “But we must get back. Come now, we’ll give you five shillings a-piece for the single journey.” “Couldn’t do it, sir: ’much as my license’s worth.” “Well, look here, we’ll spring a sov. between us.” “Jump up, then, gentlemen; but pay first, y’know.” “Oh! go on, we can’t do that—we haven’t so much between us; pay you when we get to Penzance.” “No; if you can’t pay now, you’ll have to stop here or walk. I know what paying afterwards means: I couldn’t get it by law, and you wouldn’t pay without being obliged. No, thanky: drive up, Bill.”

“Bless you! To the Hesperides with all brake proprietors. Never mind, we’ll sleep at the hotel here.” ... “Can you put us up for the night?” “No, sir, we’re full up. There’s two gentlemen sleeping on the billiard-table, an’ I’m going to sleep on the kitchener, as I’m rather short and a bit chilly. The chambermaid’s going to sleep in the wash’us, and Boots is camping out in Deadman’s Cave, in the cliffs down there. One gentleman, a nantiquarian feller, he’s borrowed a railway-rug and gone for the night to the British Bee-’ive ’uts on Windy Downs: better keep him company, it’s rather lonely for him, poor gentleman.”

“Thanks, we’re not hankering for company. We’re going to walk back to Penzance. Good night to you.”

A ten miles’ walk through pelting rain and along lonely roads is scarcely a cheering experience. The whisky with which we strove to keep out the chills was “exhibited” neat; water was not needed, for we were speedily wet through.

Supper that night was partaken of in a manner strictly private, for we were wrappaged round about in our lodgings at Penzance in a fashion, dry and comfortable perhaps, but too classically picturesque for aught but a prim and proper seclusion.