THE OIL-BEETLE. 19 



spot ; the sea below of a pale greenish-blue hue, be- 

 coming more silvery as it merges into distance, and 

 the reflection grows more perfect; the undulating 

 outline of the land to the north, with those smoothly 

 rounded swellings and sinkings that are so character- 

 istic of the chalk formation ; and now and then the 

 broad white clifi's ; Portland to the south, with its long 

 breakwater, and its busy works on shore, from, which 

 some tin-covered roof happened at the moment to 

 reflect the r9,ys of the sun above direct to my eye, 

 as if it had been a mirror ; and beyond its precipices 

 there was the sea again over the Chesil beach. The 

 steamer " Contractor," gaudily painted in green and 

 white, that plies between Weymouth and Portland, 

 whose unpoetieal name the good people here pronounce 

 with a strongly marked accent on the first syllable, — 

 was running across the bay, almost as if under my 

 feet ; and far away in the Channel some ocean steamer, 

 of gigantic dimensions, was making her way upward* 

 with a long line of black smoke streaming away be- 

 hind her, half way across the horizon. 



The birds and insects were enjoying the spring sun- 

 shine. A dozen larks were scattered about the sky, 

 and humbler songsters were chirping among the bram- 

 bles. A few wild bees were humming over the turf, 

 which glittered with the yellow pilewort and bright- 

 eyed daisy, but afi'orded as yet few of those flnwers 

 that bees delight in. Among the grass at the very 

 verge of the precipice, as I sat there a moment to 

 survey the shore below, I found that curious beetle 

 Meloe Proscar mhmus, a rather large insect of a deep 

 dull indigo tint, easily recognisable, should you ever 



