THE LAND. 267 



where the mainland begins, and where the island-world 

 ends. 



The white mists of early morning are rolling over the 

 deep shrouding, partially concealing, partly disclosing, 

 mingling with and ramifying everything, water and sky 

 inclusive. On one side an island mountain, higher and 

 grander than Ben Nevis, rears itself up so precipitously 

 and looks down on the sea so frowningly, that it appears 

 as if about to topple over on your head. On the other 

 side a group of low skerries, bald and grey, just peep out 

 above the level of the water, bespattered with and over- 

 shadowed by myriads of clamorous sea-gulls. You gaze 

 out ahead, you glance over the stern, and behold similar 

 objects and scenes endlessly repeated, and diversified. 



The ascending sun scatters the mists, glitters on the 

 sea, and converts the island world into gold. You almost 

 shout with delight. You seize your ^etch-book (if a 

 painter), your note-book (if an author), and, with brush 

 or pencil, note down your fervid impressions in glowing 

 colours or in words that burn. Ten to one, however, you 

 omit to note that a large proportion of the beauty in the 

 midst of which you are revelling is transient, and owes its 

 existence very much to the weather. 



Another traveller passes through the same scenes under 

 less favourable circumstances. The sky is grey, the 

 mountains are grey, the water is grey or black, and a 

 stiff breeze, which tips tho wavelets with sno\v-wirite 

 crests, causes him to feel disagreeably cold. The gulls 

 are silent and melancholy ; the sun is nowhere ; perhapi 



