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164
Glaucus; Or, The Wonders of the Shore
·
Charles Kingsley
4
GLAUCUS;
OR,
THE
WONDERS
OF
THE
SHORE.
YOU
are
going
down,
perhaps,
by
railway,
to
pass
your
usual
six
weeks
at
some
watering-place
along
the
coast,
and
as
you
roll
along
think
more
than
once,
and
that
not
over-cheerfully,
of
what
you
shall
do
when
you
get
there.
You
are
half-tired,
half-ashamed,
of
making
one
more
in
the
ignoble
army
of
idlers,
who
saunter
about
the
cliffs,
and
sands,
and
quays;
to
whom
every
wharf
is
but
a
“wharf
of
Lethe,”
by
which
they
rot
“dull
as
the
oozy
weed.”
You
foreknow
your
doom
by
sad
experience.
A
great
deal
of
dressing,
a
lounge
in
the
club-room,
a
stare
out
of
the
window
with
the
telescope,
an
attempt
to
take
a
bad
sketch,
a
walk
up
one
parade
and
down
another,
interminable
reading
of
the
silliest
of
novels,
over
which
you
fall
asleep
on
a
bench
in
the
sun,
and
probably
have
your
umbrella
stolen;
a
purposeless
fine-weather
sail
in
a
yacht,
accompanied
by
many
ineffectual
attempts
to
catch
a
mackerel,
and
the
consumption
of
many
cigars;
while
your
boys
deafen
your
ears,
and
endanger
your
personal
safety,
by
blazing
away
at
innocent
gulls
and
willocks,
who
go
off
to
die
slowly;
a
sport
which
you
feel
to
be
wanton,
and
cowardly,
and
cruel,
and
yet
cannot
find
in
your
heart
to
stop,
because
“the
lads
have
nothing
else
to
do,
and
at
all
events
it
keeps
them
out
of
the
billiard-room;”
and
after
all,
and
worst
of
all,
at
night
a
soulless
réchauffé
of
third-rate
London
frivolity:
this
is
the
life-in-death
in
which
thousands
spend
the
golden
weeks
of
summer,
and
in
which
you
confess
with
a
sigh
that
you
are
going
to
spend
them.
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