CORNWALL'S SIRENS 97 gilded scroll-work, and looking-glass brass, passes silently along like the sea dandy she is, making the hearts of the old salts in the tower beat a little quicker and cast envious glances. She makes no fuss or splutter, but like a well-bred and dressed lady, from hat to shoes, throws the knots behind her shapely hull at some eighteen to the hour. Yes, variety these beacon-watchers certainly have. When fog shuts out the scene, then truly they become of even more importance than ever. Life depends upon their personal vigilance, for the fog demon knows not pity. Every five minutes the button has to be pressed, and the earsplitting roar up above has to be sent out in friendliest, kindliest warning. The sirens of old that sang their alluring songs from deadly rocks are reported to have beguiled mariners to their undoing. That was their deadly business. Nowadays the modern sailor is not allured, but avoids these noise-uttering rocks for practically the same reason as did his predecessors: that wailing note spells in capital letters, danger-perhaps death. H CHAPTER XI THE FIRST AND LAST OF ENGLAND PEOPLE will go out of their way to see anything odd, curious, eccentric. Barnum knew this well, and made a living out of it. Even the everyday showman at a fair gets more customers to see his faked mermaid than he would if he only showed real live fish in an aquarium. Monsters, dwarfs, giants, bearded ladies, skeleton men, elastic-skin people, tattooed ladies, and other monstrosities "draw." So you may describe and advertise the most beautiful scenes in the world, and it falls flat. The man in the street and his wife don't want to see fine views, lovely landscapes, or sparklingly bright seascapes. Tell them a beautiful picture is on view-they won't go to see it. Tell them a picture was painted by no human hand—say, a painting by the late Charles Félu, the armless artist of Antwerp-and they will flock in to gloat over it. A portrait, no matter how lovely or religious, is a failure as a show in Bond Street; but give out that it possesses some rare characteristic, some halo-like emanation, some mystic peculiarities, and that show at once jumps to the hill-top of commercial success. Human nature has always been like this. It always will be. England's actual land's end-The Land's End, as it is called-is no more beautiful or remarkable than many other Cornish headlands, but because it is the land's end, the first and last of this island, people flock to see it, gaze on the extremity with dilated eyes and, it is hoped, much satisfaction. Each year more and more people visit this little bit of Cornwall simply because it is the end of the land, and for no other reason. Everything is made easy for them. The Great Western Railway, imbued with the true pushing, advertising spirit of the age, makes the journey comfortable and pleasant. Motor 'buses meet the "Cornish Riviera " expresses at Penzance, and whirl visitors away smoothly and ENGLAND'S EXTREMITY 99 comfortably to the spot in an hour, or a little over. The road from Penzance to England's extremity used to be perilously twisty for motors, but recently the sharp corners have been widened, and the entire route made safer and pleasanter for rapid transit. So great has been the volume of traffic during recent seasons, that several additional motor 'buses have been requisitioned to meet each incoming train at Penzance in order to cope with it. One day in August I took the trouble to estimate the number of persons on the motors, char-àbancs, and 'buses I passed on the road as I made a journey between Penzance and Sennen, and they numbered at least 700. This was upon no special day—not a Bank Holiday or a Saturday, and I am therefore convinced that the record is a fair estimate of the ordinary traffic of an ordinary fine day in the season between Penzance and Land's End. Thus do people flock to see, not anything unusual, gorgeous, or particularly captivating in the way of scenery, but simply a geographical curiosity. There is a natural corollary to this. If Land's End is to be seen quietly, and properly appreciated apart from the madding crowd, the visitor must arrange to spend the night at Sennen, or at one of the two hotels at the Land's End itself. One of these hotels is licensed, the other is not, so he has a choice of a night's lodging. In the evening the day trippers depart, full of the beauty of the scenery they have absorbed-if not of anything else—in order to get back to Penzance before dark. It naturally follows, from what I have said, that on a fine day in the season the Land's End is black, or at least variegated, with tourists. The shoes of countless multitudes have worn away every vestige of grass between the stones on the promontory, making the rocky outcrop smooth, slippery, and even finely polished with constant friction. Every year, seemingly, the popularity of this extremity of England increases. Most people like to be able to say they have been to the end of England, and apparently the majority pay a visit for that reason alone. Fashion sets and ebbs with ruthless, irresistible irregularity, and just now a wave of favouritism undoubtedly runs in favour of a visit to Land's End. As the driver of the old two-horse 'bus-or, |