HEY : SPECIMEN DAYS ON THE YORKSHIRE COAST. 245 
upon one of those planks on féet, made to assist people to get into 
boats, and about me lie half-a-dozen big cobbles, bearing their 
numbers and the letters M.H. (Middlesborough Harbour)—there on 
my right, and on my left two worn-out boats, turned bottom upwards, 
waiting decay and death ; like poor old folks, who, being no longer 
able to work, are pushed on one side to die. 
Between the stern of the upturned boat and the curving prow of 
another, spread undulations of grass-grown sand ; sun here, and shade 
there ; beyond them the smooth beach, crossed by a pearly thread, 
the course of a streamlet to the sea, then a long white fringe of foam 
and breaking waves, and pale blue sea above them. In the distance 
rises Huntcliff, and the gigantic spectre of Rockcliff, with the mere 
wraith of Staithes Point beyond. The sky is a very light blue, 
with soft white stratus clouds, tinged with pale dove grey. A skylark 
is pouring out its flood of song as though it were singing against 
time, and many other birds are twittering. The sea is falling fast, 
and at my left its surface is streaked with two long ribs of snow- 
white foam, where East Scar and Salt Scar project. On my right 
I see Upleatham Hill, palely grey, with the white smoke-puff of 
a passing train in front. 
FLaMBorouGH Heap, Sept. 16th, 1890.—I have walked along 
the cliffs from the North Sea Landing, over dewy sheep pastures, 
and descended to the shore at Selwicks. The sun is bright, but 
a soft haze broods upon the far-off sea, and hangs like a veil before 
the face of the great white cliffs. The wind blows from the south- 
east, and there is a noisy turbid sea. I have reached a dark gullet 
full of thick water, smacking its lips under the shelving rocks. But 
a dim light falls on the water from within, for this gullet is the 
entrance to a great roofless cave or creux—the ‘Pigeon Hole ’— 
a gruesome pit to look into from above when the waves are se 
_ and raging in its dark hollow—a veritable devil’s caldron. 
S Wisnsdecous, Sept. si 1890.—I am resting on the top of 
the slope that rises between the Thornwick Bays—resting in the 
setting sun. I have come over the downy fields, where the sheep 
were busily feeding, their grey fleeces blown back in the evening — 
_ wind, and past the sighing soughing beds of reeds, and have sat 
down to listen to the quiet blue sea whispering his low tale to the 
_ white cliffs. But they distrust him, and abate not a whit of their 
gedness for all the smooth fondness of the caressing wavelets. 
Their shattered rocks and pierced sides tell what the sea hath done 
Ae to them, and these two will never be iieads — oe the 
- Assit = = 
