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.