There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue Ocean - roll!

BYRON.

CHAPTER IX

THE SEA

WHEN the glorious summer weather comes, when we feel that by a year's honest work we have fairly won the prize of a good holiday, how we turn instinctively to the Sea. We pine for the delicious smell of the sea air, the murmur of the waves, the rushing sound of the pebbles on the sloping shore, the cries of the sea-birds; and long to

Linger, where the pebble-paven shore,

Under the quick, faint kisses of the Sea,
Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy.1

How beautiful the sea-coast is! At the foot of a cliff, perhaps of pure white chalk, or rich red sandstone, or stern grey granite, lies the shore of gravel or sand, with a few

scattered plants of blue Sea Holly, or yellowflowered Horned Poppies, Sea-kale, Sea Convolvulus, Saltwort, Artemisia, and Sea-grasses; the waves roll leisurely in one by one, and as they reach the beach, each in turn rises up in an arch of clear, cool, transparent, green water, tipped with white or faintly pinkish foam, and breaks lovingly on the sands; while beyond lies the open Sea sparkling in the sunshine.

Earth hath not a plain

So boundless or so beautiful as thine.1

The Sea is indeed at times overpoweringly beautiful. At morning and evening a sheet of living silver or gold, at mid-day deep blue;

even

Too deeply blue; too beautiful; too bright;
Oh, that the shadow of a cloud might rest
Somewhere upon the splendour of thy breast
In momentary gloom.2

There are few prettier sights than the beach at a seaside town on a fine summer's day ; the waves sparkling in the sunshine, the water