GLAUCUS; 
OR, 
THE WONDERS OF THE SHORE. 
You are going down, perhaps, by railway, to pass 
your usual six weeks at some watering-place along 
the coast, and as you roll along think more than 
once, and that not over-cheerfully, of what you 
shall do when you get there. You are half-tired, 
half-ashamed, of making one more in the ignoble 
army of idlers, who saunter about the cliffs, and 
sands, and quays; to whom every wharf is but a 
“wharf of Lethe,” by which they rot “dull as the 
oozy weed.” You foreknow your doom by sad 
experience. A great deal of dressing, a lounge in 
- the club-room, a stare out of the window with the 
telescope, an attempt to take a bad sketch, a walk 
Zé. B 
