THE BREEZE ON BEACHY HEAD. 237 



The green sea is on the one hand, the yellow stubble 

 on the other. The porpoise dives along beneath, 

 the sheep graze above. Green seaweed lines the reef 

 over which the white spray flies, blue lucerne dots the 

 field. The pebbles of the beach seen from the height 

 mingle in a faint blue tint, as if the distance ground 

 them into coloured sand. Leaving the footpath now, 

 and crossing the stubble to " France," as the wide 

 open hollow in the down is called by the shepherds, 

 it is no easy matter in dry summer weather to climb 

 the steep turf to the furze line above. 



Dry grass is as slippery as if it were hair, and the 

 sheep have fed it too close for a grip of the hand. 

 Under the furze (still far from the summit) they have 

 worn a path a narrow ledge, cut by their cloven feet 

 through the sward. It is time to rest ; and already, 

 looking back, the sea has extended to an indefinite 

 horizon. This climb of a few hundred feet opens a 

 view of so many miles more. But the ships lose their 

 individuality and human character ; they are so far, 

 so very far, away, they do not take hold of the 

 sympathies ; they seem like sketches cunningly 

 executed, but only sketches on the immense canvas 

 of the ocean. There is something unreal about them. 



On a calm day, when the surface is smooth as if 

 the brimming ocean had been straked the rod passed 

 across the top of the measure, thrusting off the 

 irregularities of wave ; when the distant green from 

 long simmering under the sun becomes pale ; when 

 the sky, without cloud, but with some slight haze in 

 it, likewise loses its hue, and the two so commingle 

 in the pallor of heat that they cannot be separated 



