Sylvia's Lovers

The next morning shone bright and clear, if ever a March morning

did. The beguiling month was coming in like a lamb, with whatever

storms it might go raging out. It was long since Philip had tasted

the freshness of the early air on the shore, or in the country, as

his employment at the shop detained him in Monkshaven till the

evening. And as he turned down the quays (or staithes) on the north

side of the river, towards the shore, and met the fresh sea-breeze

blowing right in his face, it was impossible not to feel bright and

elastic. With his knapsack slung over his shoulder, he was prepared

for a good stretch towards Hartlepool, whence a coach would take him

to Newcastle before night. For seven or eight miles the level sands

were as short and far more agreeable a road than the up and down

land-ways. Philip walked on pretty briskly, unconsciously enjoying

the sunny landscape before him; the crisp curling waves rushing

almost up to his feet, on his right hand, and then swishing back

over the fine small pebbles into the great swelling sea. To his left

were the cliffs rising one behind another, having deep gullies here

and there between, with long green slopes upward from the land, and

then sudden falls of brown and red soil or rock deepening to a yet

greater richness of colour at their base towards the blue ocean

before him. The loud, monotonous murmur of the advancing and

receding waters lulled him into dreaminess; the sunny look of

everything tinged his day-dreams with hope. So he trudged merrily

over the first mile or so; not an obstacle to his measured pace on

the hard, level pavement; not a creature to be seen since he had

left the little gathering of bare-legged urchins dabbling in the

sea-pools near Monkshaven. The cares of land were shut out by the

glorious barrier of rocks before him. There were some great masses

that had been detached by the action of the weather, and lay half

embedded in the sand, draperied over by the heavy pendent

olive-green seaweed. The waves were nearer at this point; the

advancing sea came up with a mighty distant length of roar; here and

there the smooth swell was lashed by the fret against unseen rocks

into white breakers; but otherwise the waves came up from the German

Ocean upon that English shore with a long steady roll that might

have taken its first impetus far away, in the haunt of the

sea-serpent on the coast of 'Norroway over the foam.' The air was

soft as May; right overhead the sky was blue, but it deadened into

gray near the sea lines. Flocks of seagulls hovered about the edge

of the waves, slowly rising and turning their white under-plumage to

glimmer in the sunlight as Philip approached. The whole scene was so

peaceful, so soothing, that it dispelled the cares and fears (too

well founded in fact) which had weighed down on his heart during the

dark hours of the past night.