THE OIL-BEETLE. 19 



spot ; the sea below, of a pale greenisli-bliie line, be- 

 coming more silvery as it merges into distance, and 

 the reflection gTOWs more perfect; the midnlating 

 outline of the land to the north, with those smoothly 

 rotinded swellings and sinkings that are so character- 

 istic of the chalk formation ; and now and then the 

 broad white cliffs ; Portland to the south, with its long 

 breakwater, and its busy works on shore, from which 

 some tin-covered roof happened at the moment to 

 reflect the rays of the sun above direct to my eye, 

 as if it had been a mirror ; and beyond its precipices 

 there was the sea again over the Chesil beach. The 

 steamer '' Contractor," — gaudily painted in green and 

 white, that plies between Weymouth and Portland, 

 whose unpoetical name the good people here pronounce 

 with a strongly-marked accent on the first syllable, — 

 was running across the Bay, almost as if under my 

 feet ; and far away in the Channel some ocean steamer, 

 of gigantic dimensions, was making her way upward, 

 with a long line of black smoke streaming away 

 behind her, half way across the horizon. 



The birds and insects were enjoying the spring sun- 

 shine. A dozen larks were scattered about the sky, 

 and humbler songsters were chirping among the bram- 

 bles. A few wild bees were humming over the turf, 

 which glittered with the yellow pilewort and bright- 

 eyed daisy, but aflbrded as yet few of those flowers 

 that bees delight in. Among the grass at the very 

 verge of the precipice, as I sat there a moment to 

 survey the shore below, I found that curious beetle 

 Meloe proscarahmus^ a rather large insect of a deep 

 dull indigo tint, easily recognisable, should you ever 



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