146 



The Naturalist. 



througli a hole in tlie wall. Mind ! this is a rank exception to the rule 

 of safety. I repeat — reptiles will " git," as the Yankees say, if they 

 only git half a chance. 



When I first dipped my pen into the ink, I had intended to 

 demolish a thousand details in few words, but, proceeding, letter 

 has succeeded letter, and I am writing still. The order of things is 

 reversed, and it may be that my first impressions, when totted down, 

 bear the epitaph 



Here lies little matter in much room." 



So be it ! If you think I am going to sit down to a quiet dish of hash 

 without gravy, or task without pleasure, it is an egregious error. But 

 no ! you have conceded me space for intervening moral and philo- 

 sophical discursions, and I am happy. There is one sentimental sigh 

 yet to eject, or rather a diversion to entertain. How gladly your 

 Yorkshire weavers rise with the lark, bolt a scanty breakfast, rush 

 breathlessly to catch a lazy excursion train, suffer the stuffy atmosphere 

 of a third-class smoking compartment, risk the penalties of railway 

 accidents, impatiently submit to never-ending stoppages, delays, and 

 ticket inspections, waste eight hours travelling for a two hours' revel 

 in the delights of one snatching peep at the rolling sea, or a ramble on 

 the orange peel bespattered beach. And here I may view the lordly 

 ocean any moment. Such an ocean too ! Gaze across from the N.W= 

 angle of Algoa Bay to the opposite shore. Trace the hazy line of 

 pearly white sand which separates true land from true water. Raise 

 your eyes and define the junction of mountain and sky. Leslie, paint 

 nature truly, and your effort is adjudged a fraud. Turner, turn'er 

 attention to that threatening sky, those angry breakers, and imitate 

 action on canvas. Museful poet, does your poetic license avail 

 sufficiently! Ransack the mine of thought and imagine when you 

 cannot find. No appropriation, however sublime, will serve you here. 

 Nature's beauty has oft been studied, but never spoken. Grand old 

 ocean, you lack an impossible champion. I love you when your bosom 

 heaves in mighty anger, or gently sways in smooth complacence, I 

 love you in a thundering roaring temper, and I love you when the rage 

 subsides. Nay, if beneath your glassy surface is concealed a treacherous 

 heart, I love you still. Dash your sprayful arms against the whitened 

 strand, or ripple softly on the shore, I care not. I love you in any 

 mood and upon all occasions. They call you vile and fickle. I think 

 you are genuine and constant, and most assuredly aristocratic if length 

 of lineage is veritable proof. I too would cast away the shuttle and 



