an idea of wildness, confusion, and power as they do at Dover. To see
waves in their full vigour go to the Admiralty Pier and watch the seas
broken by the granite wall. Windy Brighton has not an inch of shelter
anywhere in a gale, and the salt rain driven by the wind penetrates the
thickest coat. The windiest spot is at the corner of Second Avenue, Hove;
the wind just there is almost enough to choke those who face it. Double
windows--Russian fashion--are common all along the sea-front, and are
needed.

After a gale, when the wind changes, as it usually does, it is pleasant
to see the ships work in to the verge of the shore. The sea is turbid and
yellow with sand beaten up by the recent billows,--this yellowness
extends outwards to a certain line, and is there succeeded by the green
of clearer water. Beyond this again the surface looks dark, as if still
half angry, and clouds hang over it, both to retire from the strife. As
bees come out of their hives when the rain ceases and the sun shines, so
the vessels which have been lying-to in harbour, or under shelter of
promontories, are now eagerly making their way down Channel, and, in
order to get as long a tack and as much advantage as possible, they are
brought to the edge of the shallow water. Sometimes fifteen or twenty or
more stand in; all sizes from the ketch to the three-master. The wind is
not strong, but that peculiar drawing breeze which seems to pull a ship
along as if with a tow-rope. The brig stands straight for the beach, with
all sail set; she heels a little, not much; she scarcely heaves to the
swell, and is not checked by meeting waves; she comes almost to the
yellow line of turbid water, when round she goes, and you can see the
sails shiver as the breeze touches them on both surfaces for a moment.
Then again she shows her stern and away she glides, while another
approaches: and all day long they pass. There is always something
shadowy, not exactly unreal, but shadowy about a ship; it seems to carry