THE BATHING SEASON, 151 



number of times another will break there again; 

 presently one will encroach the merest trifle ; after 

 a while another encroaches again, and the apparent 

 irregularity is really sternly regular. The free wave 

 has no liberty — it does not act for itself, — no real 

 generous wildness. " Thus far and no farther," is 

 not a merciful saying. Cold and dread and pitiless, 

 the wave claims its due — it stretches its arms to the 

 fullest length, and does not pause or hearken to the 

 ■desire of any human heart. Hopeless to appeal to 

 is the unseen force that sends the white surge under- 

 neath to darken the pebbles- to a certain line. The 

 wetted pebbles are darker than the dry ; even in the 

 dusk they are easily distinguished. Something merci- 

 less is there not in this conjunction of restriction 

 and impetus ? Something outside human hope and 

 thought — indifferent — cold ? 



Considering in this way, I wandered about fifty 

 yards along the pier, and sat down in an abstracted 

 way on the seat on the right side. Beneath, the clear 

 green sea rolled in crestless waves towards the shore 

 — they were moving "without the animation of the 

 wind," which had deserted them two days ago, and 

 a hundred miles out at sea. Slower and slower, with 

 an indolent undulation, rising and sinking of mere 

 weight and devoid of impetus, the waves passed on, 

 scarcely seeming to break the smoothness of the 

 surface. At a little distance it seemed level; yet 

 the boats every now and then sank deeply into the 

 trough, and even a large fishing-smack rolled heavily. 

 For it is the nature of a groundswell to be exceedingly 

 deceptive. Sometimes the waves are so far apart 



