THE QUAY-FIELDS. 129 



beaux are leaving the stairs for a few hours' sail 

 along the coast. The Bristol Steamer at the pier-head 

 is impatiently blowing off her waste-steam, as some 

 tardy passenger is seen bustling along with babies 

 and luggage, almost too late. The coasting schooners 

 are taking in or discharging cargo; below my feet is a 

 busy scene, where the brawny shipwrights are wielding 

 the hammer and adze with continuous din around the 

 growing skeleton of a fine ship. All this is pleasant 

 to contemplate on a sunny day from the elevated nook 

 I speak of, its bowery quietness forming an agree- 

 able contrast with the bustle below. 



Down the slope of the Quay fields, over the rustic 

 bridge that strides the deep road leading to Larkstone 

 Cove, between hedges full of blossom, on which the 

 gay tortoise-shell butterfly is fluttering, and scores of 

 banded and yellow snails are crawling, and along the 

 foot-path through the corn across Brimlm's fields to 

 the high road. In the midst of these fields, if we 

 pause and turn, we shall get a fine and commanding 

 view of the town. The slopes above the terraces on 

 the left, and the majestic Hillsborough on the right, 

 form a sort of ample basin, in which a wide expanse 

 of sea lies, half filling the concave. In the centre 

 rises Capstone Hill, a conical mass verdant to the 

 summit, and crowned with its signal-staff; and below 

 the base of this is seen the harbour and the lower 

 part of the town. Between Capstone and the Eun- 

 nacleaves, the green slopes to the left, is the favourite 

 bathing cove of Wildersmouth, through which we 

 have a fine view of the sea ; and here, if the tide be 

 in, the stranger's eye can hardly fail to be attracted 



