The last part of our drive to Fresh-water Bay was through a highly-cultivated district; the country had lost its romantic charm; to the very seashore on both sides of us was covered with barley, pease, and the finest of wheat. Save a glimpse of the sea in the distance, the hold headland of Black Gang Chine, and the downs before us, it was as tame as a cosset lamb. And, by-the-way, speaking of lambs and such fancy articles, immense flocks of sheep are grazing on these downs, and each is as big as three of our Merinos, and the mutton is delicious.
FRESH-WATER BAY.
We are at an inn within a few yards of the beach, with a shore of chalky cliffs, and a pretty arch in the rocks worn by the water, and a jutting point before us called the Stag, from a fanciful resemblance, as I conjecture, to that animal boldly leaping into the waves. The Halls are here, and in a stroll with them last evening over the cliffs we encountered a man who lives, "not by gathering samphire" (which, by-the-way, we did gather), but by getting the eggs of seafowl that resort here in immense flocks, flattering themselves, no doubt, in their bliss of ignorance, that the cliffs are inaccessible.[1] Our egg-
- ↑ They are of very difficult access, as we were assured by seeing the process of letting the man down and sustaining him on the perpendicular cliff; but nothing seems impossible to men who must die or struggle for their bread. The man was stout and very well looking, but with and anxious and sad expression. I found he had a large family to feed, and among them four stalwart boys. I asked him what were their prospects. "None," he said, with an expression suited to the words, "but starvation."
