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. [Illustration: SAINT BURYAN.] 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! [Illustration: _Saint Germoe._] 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. [Illustration: The Longships Lighthouse]