The children dig in the sand, and throw it over the nurses, just as they are doing at Old Orchard and Old Point.  Here, with a maid, is a pair of children who freely show one attribute of childhood not so pleasing as others,—­cruelty.  They have a little monkey, fastened by collar and chain, and it is pitiful and yet ludicrous to see the close watch the animal keeps on his captors’ movements.  He has found a slack chain his best policy, and adapts his every motion anxiously and solicitously to the leaps of the boy.  But the utmost vigilance avails him little.  When the child is weary with running and sudden turns, which have called for marvelous dexterity of accommodation on the part of the monkey, the chain is hauled up, with the animal clinging worriedly to it, and he is flung far out into the fringe of waves, to pick his shivering way up again and again from the water.  These children have a white rat, also, which they chase over the sand, and souse into puddles, and otherwise maltreat.  It is useless to interfere parentally, and we hardly see our way to buying either rat or monkey, even to ensure them a peaceable old age.  One wonders why children have this queer taint of cruelty.  Unconscious cruelty it may be, but it seems none the less out of place in their fresh, unused nature.  We outgrow some rude vices as well as rude virtues, in becoming older, and there is comfort in that.

III.

The bluff, coming out to the sea, cuts off, close at hand, the curve of the shore toward the south, and we climb by a sloping path.  From the top, we look down upon, the beach we have left; back upon the downs cluster the numberless private villas which form a feature of Biarritz; to the left, over the near roofs and hotels of the town, we can see the first far-off pickets of the Pyrenees; while immediately in front now appear below us three or four rocky bays and coves, broken by the lines of the cliff and partly sheltered by the rocks out at sea.  “Many of these rocks,” writes an old-time visitor,[2] in the pleasantly aging English of 1840, “are perforated with holes, so that, with a high sea and an incoming tide, and always, indeed, in some degree, when the tide flows, the water pours through these hollows and rents, presenting the singular appearance of many cascades.  Some of the rocks lying close to the shore, and many of those which form the cliff, are worn into vast caverns.  In these the waves make ceaseless music,—­a hollow, dismal sound, like distant thunder,—­and when a broad, swelling wave bounds into these caverns and breaks in some distant chamber, the shock, to one standing on the beach, is like a slight earthquake.  But when a storm rises in the Bay of Biscay, and a northwest wind sweeps across the Atlantic, the scene is grand beyond the power of description.  The whole space covered with rocks, which are scattered over the coast, is an expanse of foam, boiling whirlpools and cataracts, and the noise of the tremendous waves, rushing into these vast caverns and lashing their inner walls, is grander a thousand times than the most terrific thunder-storm that ever burst from the sky.”