The end of my ride was sadder than the beginning, for at first my senses alone took cognizance of what surrounded me, and afterwards my soul looked on it, and it grew dark. We rode two miles along the beach, and stopped at a little wooden hut, where, Mr. —— told me, sportsmen, who come to shoot plover along the flats by the shore, resort to dress their dinners and refresh themselves. Here we dismounted: lay in the sun on the roof with the fresh, sweet, blessed breath of heaven fanning us. My horse thought proper to break his bridle and walk himself off through the fields: they followed him with corn, and various inducements; —— and I, meantime, ran down to the water, collecting interesting relics, muscle shells, quartz, pebbles, and sea-weed; finally, we remounted and returned home. The weather had changed completely, and become quite bleak and cold: the variations of the climate in this place are terrible. As we rode down a pleasant lane towards the Salem road, we met a large crowd of country-people busily employed in raising the framework of a house. In this part of the country, the poorer class of people build their houses, or rather, the wooden frames of their houses, entirely before they set them up. When the skeleton is entirely finished, they call together all their neighbours to assist in the raising, which is an event of much importance, and generally ends in a merry-making. The filling up the outline of the habitation, which they do with boards here, is an after work: the frame seems to be the material part of the building, and slight enough too, I thought, for protection against these bitter east winds. We reached home at about half-past two. The play was Much Ado about Nothing: the house was spoilt by the fair which the ladies have been getting up for the blind here, and which was lighted and open for inspection previous to to-morrow, when the sale is to take place.
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* * * * *
LINES.
* * * and I
Am reading, too, my book of memory:
With eyelids closed, over the crested foam,
And the blue marbled sea, I seek my home.
All present things forgotten, on the shore
Of the romantic Forth I stand once more;