chisel, and have little doubt that my hint will be acted on; by next season, the Cornish antiquaries will be puzzling their musty brains over marks of “druidical” tools; essays will appear, to demonstrate that the chippings were accomplished by the consecrated golden sickle; the rock will be proved to have been quarried at Normandy, and ferried over; facsimiles of the cuts will be lithographed; and the Innkeeper of the “First and Last house in England” will gratefully present a piece of plate (a Druid “spanning” [consider Ezekiel’s “putting the branch to the nose” as a sign of contempt]!) to the author of “Hints for a Chisel,” “Proverbial Phil.,” &c. &c. &c.  But—­revenous a nos moutons:  to the Logan:  until it was scrupulously pointed out, by so tangible a manner as my boy-guide getting on it, I could scarcely distinguish it from the fine hurlyburly of rocks around.  That it moves there is no question; but when I tell you that it is now obliged to be artificially kept from falling, by a chain fixing it behind, and a beam to rest on before, I think you will agree with me in muttering “the humbug!” Artists have so diligently falsified the view, ad captandum, that you will have some difficulty in recognising so old a friend as the Logan:  it is commonly drawn as if isolated, thus, and would so, no doubt, be very astonishing; but, when my memory puts it as above, stapled, and obliged to remain for Cockneys to log it, surrounded by a much more imposing brotherhood, my wonder only is that it keeps its lion character, and that, considering the easy explication of its natural cause or accident, it should ever have been conceived to be man’s doing; perhaps the Druids availed themselves of so lucky a chance for miracle-mongering, but as to having contrived it, you might as well say that they built the cliffs.  It strikes me, moreover, that Cornwall could never have been the headquarters of Druidism, inasmuch as the soil is too scanty for oaks:  there isn’t a tree of any size, much less an oak tree in all West Cornwall:  they must have cut samphire from the rocks, instead of misletoe from oaks, and the old gentlemen must have been pretty tolerable climbers, victim and all, to have got near enough to touch the Logan:  to be sure it was a frosty day, and iron-shod shoes on icy granite are not over coalescible, but I did not dare scramble to it, as a tumble would have insured a particularly uncomfortable death; and although the interesting “Leaper from the Logan, or Martin Martyr” would have had his name enshrined in young lady sonnets, and azure albums, such immortality had little charms for me.  I contented myself with being able to swear that I have seen 90 tons of stone moved by a child of ten years old.  Near it is another, called the logging lady, a block, upright like its neighbours, about 12 feet high, and which the boy told me could only be made to log by two men with poles; in fact, one end is worn with levers:  well, I told him to try and