PETIT TOR. 215 



blowing, to use a seaman's phrase, " as if 'twould tear 

 the very canvas out of the boltrope ! " ISTo craft could 

 shew a rag to the gales ; and, what is strange, instead 

 of the raw easterly wind usual at this season, it has 

 been all up-channel ; balmy and humid, despite its 

 violent fits of squalling. Behold one result in yonder 

 fleet of outward bound, lying under the lee of the bluff 

 Berry Head, a goodly argosy of some two hundred 

 craft of all sizes, from the stately East Indiaman to 

 the queer little French lugger. Well, there they ride, 

 the tall and taper top-gallant mast-heads marking 

 incessant triangles on the sky, and the small fry 

 bobbing about like ducks upon the surging swells 

 that come in from the wild Atlantic. There they 

 ride ; or at least they did ride, for on looking sea- 

 ward this morning, they have almost all disappeared, 

 and the shrieking wind is moaning itself to sleep, like 

 a wilful child. 



Now to the shore again for the opima spoUa, the 

 rejectamenta of the gale. Down from our height to 

 the sea-beach of the little cove of Petit Tor, through 

 this wild and broken, but verdant combe, between 

 that perpendicular promontory of limestone on the 

 one hand, and yon beetling cliffs of red sandstone on 

 the other. How grand those masses of old conglo- 

 merate, from whose lofty brows come the hoarse calls 

 of the choughs, and jackdaws, and where now and 

 again the blue rockdove flits out on swift pinion utter- 

 ing its loud coo ! 



'Tis a bright and balmy morning : and as we de- 



