water-carted, so much more crowded, so much more disturbing and
distracting in all respects, than it usually is, a quiet sea-beach
becomes indeed a blessed spot. Half awake and half asleep, this
idle morning in our sunny window on the edge of a chalk-cliff in
the old-fashioned watering-place to which we are a faithful
resorter, we feel a lazy inclination to sketch its picture.

The place seems to respond. Sky, sea, beach, and village, lie as
still before us as if they were sitting for the picture. It is
dead low-water. A ripple plays among the ripening corn upon the
cliff, as if it were faintly trying from recollection to imitate
the sea; and the world of butterflies hovering over the crop of
radish-seed are as restless in their little way as the gulls are in
their larger manner when the wind blows. But the ocean lies
winking in the sunlight like a drowsy lion - its glassy waters
scarcely curve upon the shore - the fishing-boats in the tiny
harbour are all stranded in the mud - our two colliers (our
watering-place has a maritime trade employing that amount of
shipping) have not an inch of water within a quarter of a mile of
them, and turn, exhausted, on their sides, like faint fish of an
antediluvian species. Rusty cables and chains, ropes and rings,
undermost parts of posts and piles and confused timber-defences
against the waves, lie strewn about, in a brown litter of tangled
sea-weed and fallen cliff which looks as if a family of giants had
been making tea here for ages, and had observed an untidy custom of
throwing their tea-leaves on the shore.

In truth, our watering-place itself has been left somewhat high and
dry by the tide of years. Concerned as we are for its honour, we
must reluctantly admit that the time when this pretty little