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164
Glaucus; Or, The Wonders of the Shore
·
Charles Kingsley
117
I
speak
from
experience;
for
it
was
not
so
very
long
ago
that,
in
the
north
of
Devon,
I
found
sermons,
not
indeed
in
stones,
but
in
a
creature
reputed
among
the
most
worthless
of
sea-vermin.
I
had
been
lounging
about
all
the
morning
on
the
little
pier,
waiting,
with
the
rest
of
the
village,
for
a
trawling
breeze
which
would
not
come.
Two
o’clock
was
past,
and
still
the
red
mainsails
of
the
skiffs
hung
motionless,
and
their
images
quivered
head
downwards
in
the
glassy
swell,
“As
idle
as
a
painted
ship
Upon
a
painted
ocean.”
It
was
neap-tide,
too,
and
therefore
nothing
could
be
done
among
the
rocks.
So,
in
despair,
finding
an
old
coast-guard
friend
starting
for
his
lobster-pots,
I
determined
to
save
the
old
man’s
arms,
by
rowing
him
up
the
shore;
and
then
paddled
homeward
again,
under
the
high
green
northern
wall,
five
hundred
feet
of
cliff
furred
to
the
water’s
edge
with
rich
oak
woods,
against
whose
base
the
smooth
Atlantic
swell
died
whispering,
as
if
curling
itself
up
to
sleep
at
last
within
that
sheltered
nook,
tired
with
its
weary
wanderings.
The
sun
sank
lower
and
lower
behind
the
deer-park
point;
the
white
stair
of
houses
up
the
glen
was
wrapped
every
moment
deeper
and
deeper
in
hazy
smoke
and
shade,
as
the
light
faded;
the
evening
fires
were
lighted
one
by
one;
the
soft
murmur
of
the
waterfall,
and
the
pleasant
laugh
of
children,
and
the
splash
of
homeward
oars,
came
clearer
and
clearer
to
the
ear
at
every
stroke:
and
as
we
rowed
on,
arose
the
recollection
of
many
a
brave
and
wise
friend,
whose
lot
was
cast
in
no
such
western
paradise,
but
rather
in
the
infernos
of
this
sinful
earth,
toiling
even
then
amid
the
festering
alleys
of
Bermondsey
and
Bethnal
Green,
to
palliate
death
and
misery
which
they
had
vainly
laboured
to
prevent,
watching
the
strides
of
that
very
cholera
which
they
had
been
striving
for
years
to
ward
off,
now
re-admitted
in
spite
of
all
their
warnings,
by
the
carelessness,
and
laziness,
and
greed
of
sinful
man.
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