The harbor and the beach are thus occupied in winter; but one may
walk for many a mile along the cliffs, and see nothing human but
a few gardeners, spreading green and white sea-weed as manure
upon the lawns. The mercury rarely drops to zero here, and there
is little snow; but a new-fallen drift has just the same virgin
beauty as farther inland, and when one suddenly comes in view of
the sea beyond it, there is a sensation of summer softness. The
water is not then deep blue, but pale, with opaline reflections.
Vessels in the far horizon have the same delicate tint, as if
woven of the same liquid material. A single wave lifts itself
languidly above a reef,--a white-breasted loon floats near the
shore,--the sea breaks in long, indolent curves,--the distant
islands swim in a vague mirage. Along the cliffs hang great
organ-pipes of ice, distilling showers of drops that glitter in
the noonday sun, while the barer rocks send up a perpetual steam,
giving to the eye a sense of warmth, and suggesting the comforts
of fire. Beneath, the low tide reveals long stretches of
golden-brown sea-weed, caressed by the lapping wave.

High winds bring a different scene. Sometimes I fancy that in
winter, with less visible life upon the surface of the water, and
less of unseen animal life below it, there is yet more that seems
like vital force in the individual particles of waves. Each
separate drop appears more charged with desperate and determined
life. The lines of surf run into each other more brokenly, and
with less steady roll. The low sun, too, lends a weird and jagged
shadow to gallop in before the crest of each advancing wave, and
sometimes there is a second crest on the shoulders of the first,
as if there were more than could be contained in a single curve.