move it; no use, says he; try, said I; he did try, and couldn’t; well, I took a sight of where I thought he could do it, and set him to push; forthwith, my lady tottered, and I told the boy, if he would only keep to himself where he pushed it would be a banknote to him.  I mention this to illustrate what I verily believe, to wit, that, if a man only took the breakneck trouble to clamber and try, he would discover several rocking-stones; but the fact is, this would diminish the wonder, and Cockneys wouldn’t come to see what is easily explained:  your Druids, with imaginary dynamics, invest nature’s freaks with mysterious interest.  But away to Tol Peden Penwith, where there is another curiosity; in the smooth green middle of a narrow promontory, surrounded and terminated by the boldest rock-scenery, strangely drops down for a perpendicular hundred feet, a circular chasm, not ill named the Funnel, and which not even a stolid Borlase can pretend was dug by the Druids:  at the bottom there is communication with the sea by means of a cavern, and in stormy weather the rush up this gigantic earth’s chimney-must be something terrible:  will this convey a rough idea? the scenery all round is really magnificent, and the looking down this black smooth stone-pit is quite fearful; it slopes away so deceitfully, and looks like a huge lion-ant’s nest.  Few people see this, because you can only get at it by a walk of a mile, but I think it quite as worth seeing as the logan-rock.  My next object was the Land’s End, where, as elsewhere, I did signalise myself by not scribbling my autograph on a rock, or carving M.F.T. on the sod:  the rocky coast is of the same grand character; granite bits, as big as houses, floundering over each other like whales at play; the cliffs, cavernous, castellated, mossgrown, and weatherbeaten; it looks like a Land’s end, a regular break up of the world’s then useless ribs:  an outlier of rocks in the sea, surmounted by a lighthouse:  looks like the end of the struggle between conquering man, and sturdy desolation.  One place, where I tremble to think I have been, struck me as quite awful:  helped by an iron-handed sailor, who comforts you in the dizzy scramble with “Never fear, sir, you shan’t fall, unless I fall too,” you fearfully pick your way to the extreme end, where it goes slick down, and lying prostrate on the slippery granite (which looks disjointed everywhere, and as if it would fall with you, bodily) with head strained over you see under you a dreadful cavern, open nearly to where you are, up which roars the white and angry sea.  O brother David, and foot-tingling Sire, never can you take that look; and never would I again.  Only think of tipping over! ugh.—­Into the gig again, beside my shrewd Sam Weller driver, and away.  Here and there about this part of Cornwall are studded rude stone crosses, probably of the time of St. Colomba, as they are similar to those at Iona:  about two or three feet high, and very rude.  In