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164
Glaucus; Or, The Wonders of the Shore
·
Charles Kingsley
44
Follow
us,
then,
reader,
in
imagination,
out
of
the
gay
watering-place,
with
its
London
shops
and
London
equipages,
along
the
broad
road
beneath
the
sunny
limestone
cliff,
tufted
with
golden
furze;
past
the
huge
oaks
and
green
slopes
of
Tor
Abbey;
and
past
the
fantastic
rocks
of
Livermead,
scooped
by
the
waves
into
a
labyrinth
of
double
and
triple
caves,
like
Hindoo
temples,
upborne
on
pillars
banded
with
yellow
and
white
and
red,
a
week’s
study,
in
form
and
colour
and
chiaro-oscuro,
for
any
artist;
and
a
mile
or
so
further
along
a
pleasant
road,
with
land-locked
glimpses
of
the
bay,
to
the
broad
sheet
of
sand
which
lies
between
the
village
of
Paignton
and
the
sea—
sands
trodden
a
hundred
times
by
Montagu
and
Turton,
perhaps,
by
Dillwyn
and
Gaertner,
and
many
another
pioneer
of
science.
And
once
there,
before
we
look
at
anything
else,
come
down
straight
to
the
sea
marge;
for
yonder
lies,
just
left
by
the
retiring
tide,
a
mass
of
life
such
as
you
will
seldom
see
again.
It
is
somewhat
ugly,
perhaps,
at
first
sight;
for
ankle-deep
are
spread,
for
some
ten
yards
long
by
five
broad,
huge
dirty
bivalve
shells,
as
large
as
the
hand,
each
with
its
loathly
grey
and
black
siphons
hanging
out,
a
confused
mass
of
slimy
death.
Let
us
walk
on
to
some
cleaner
heap,
and
leave
these,
the
great
Lutraria
Elliptica,
which
have
been
lying
buried
by
thousands
in
the
sandy
mud,
each
with
the
point
of
its
long
siphon
above
the
surface,
sucking
in
and
driving
out
again
the
salt
water
on
which
it
feeds,
till
last
night’s
ground-swell
shifted
the
sea-bottom,
and
drove
them
up
hither
to
perish
helpless,
but
not
useless,
on
the
beach.
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