of a sudden lull, or a place of opportune shelter.  The reader knows what I mean; he must remember how, when he has sat himself down behind a dyke on a hill-side, he delighted to hear the wind hiss vainly through the crannies at his back; how his body tingled all over with warmth, and it began to dawn upon him, with a sort of slow surprise, that the country was beautiful, the heather purple, and the faraway hills all marbled with sun and shadow.  Wordsworth, in a beautiful passage[15] of the “Prelude,” has used this as a figure for the feeling struck in us by the quiet by-streets of London after the uproar of the great thoroughfares; and the comparison may be turned the other way with as good effect: 

  “Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length,
  Escaped as from an enemy we turn,
  Abruptly into some sequestered nook,
  Still as a shelter’d place when winds blow loud!”

I remember meeting a man once, in a train, who told me of what must have been quite the most perfect instance of this pleasure of escape.  He had gone up, one sunny, windy morning, to the top of a great cathedral somewhere abroad; I think it was Cologne Cathedral, the great unfinished marvel by the Rhine;[16] and after a long while in dark stairways, he issued at last into the sunshine, on a platform high above the town.  At that elevation it was quite still and warm; the gale was only in the lower strata of the air, and he had forgotten it in the quiet interior of the church and during his long ascent; and so you may judge of his surprise when, resting his arms on the sunlit balustrade and looking over into the Place far below him, he saw the good people holding on their hats and leaning hard against the wind as they walked.  There is something, to my fancy, quite perfect in this little experience of my fellow-traveller’s.  The ways of men seem always very trivial to us when we find ourselves alone on a church-top, with the blue sky and a few tall pinnacles, and see far below us the steep roofs and foreshortened buttresses, and the silent activity of the city streets; but how much more must they not have seemed so to him as he stood, not only above other men’s business, but above other men’s climate, in a golden zone like Apollo’s![17]

This was the sort of pleasure I found in the country of which I write.  The pleasure was to be out of the wind, and to keep it in memory all the time, and hug oneself upon the shelter.  And it was only by the sea that any such sheltered places were to be found.  Between the black worm-eaten headlands there are little bights and havens, well screened from the wind and the commotion of the external sea, where the sand and weeds look up into the gazer’s face from a depth of tranquil water, and the sea-birds, screaming and flickering from the ruined crags, alone disturb the silence and the sunshine.  One such place has impressed itself on my memory beyond all others.  On a rock by the water’s edge,