ON CORNISH CLIFFS. 207 



XXII. 



ON CORNISH CLIFFS. 



I AM lying on my back in the sunshine, close 

 to the edge of a great broken precipice, 

 beside a clambering Cornish fishing village. 

 In front of me is the sea, bluer than I have 

 seen it since last I lay in like fashion a few 

 months ago on the schistose slopes of the 

 Maurettes at Hyeres, and looked away across 

 the plain to the unrippled Mediterranean and 

 the Stcechades of the old Phocsean merchant- 

 men. On either hand rise dark cliffs of 

 hornblende and serpentine, weathered above 

 by wind and rain, and smoothed below by 

 the ceaseless dashing of the winter waves. 

 Up to the limit of the breakers the hard rock 

 is polished like Egyptian syenite ; but beyond 



