The Argosy — page 152: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Channel Islands. 139 Islands were visible, rising sleepily out of the calm and lovely water: Guernsey, Sark, and Alderney, and the little islets of Herm and Jethou. The Paternosters lay to the right: areefof dangerous rocks that must often have been less kind than cruel, unworthy of their name. Anyone writing a guide to Jersey might make the record “‘ Plémont, famous for its lobsters :” for late as the season was, the inn furnished some splendid specimens. But it is famous for more than that. The rocks are grand and precipitous. There are caves, too, only to be entered at low water. A small bridge spans a chasm, below which you may jump from rock to rock and point to point, down to the sandy beach. Of the caves I can say nothing. We saw them not. The “cruel, crawling tide,” though receding, was still too high to admit of investigation. And though we stayed’ some time, it was too high for our purpose up to the very last. So like the fox with the grapes, we consoled ourselves with the idea that caves after all are disappointing, not repaying one half the time for the trouble of groping about in the dark, the danger of plunging head-first into a pool of icy water, or of dashing one’s brains out against a sharp bit of rock lying in wait for the unwary. The rocks here were perhaps the finest we saw in Jersey. A small waterfall tumbled over the cliffs, with, in rainy weather, possibly a fine effect. Waterfalls are not the strong point of Jersey, any more than its trees. But we cannot have everything, and Jersey has sufficient attraction in its coast scenery, its lanes and its lovely sea, the delicious productions of its soil, and its interesting, soft-eyed cows. A great deal of the coast might be traced from Plémont; bays and points stretching out in fine bold outlines. Just round the further point was St. Owen’s, largest of all the Jersey bays. _ Our last halting-place that day—St. Brelade’s Bay, with its ancient church dating back to the 12th century—was also one of the most interesting. The white sands are firm and pleasant, and the sea rolls steadily up over a sloping beach. Here, whilst H. and I explored the shore, we found the excursionists grouping themselves round the car in telling attitudes, before the hotel At first we almost fancied they were about to break into a part song, like German students out for a day’s ramble ; and an unknown individual who superintended the pastures might have been the leader. But it soon appeared that all these preparations were photographic; an infliction that has often been sensibly compared to tooth drawing. To spare ourselves the pain and penalty of refusing our jovial conductor, who was looking about him as if he felt rather than saw the absence of certain of his flock, we extended our walk upon the sands beyond a friendly point of rock. Here we were close to the church and the tombs, and, like Hervey, might have meditated upon the vanity of human life and the fading of human hopes. But we did nothing of the kind. We threw pebbles into the water and enjoyed the bubbles and the rings and the splashes, and revelled in CONMIEIOOKS (E(©) m