sloughed on my oldest boots; and, buttoned
up like a spy, a crimp, an escaped smuggler,
walked down towards the sea, now a laughing,
glittering green in the early sunlight— the shining
opal collar that nature placed round a dove's
neck was nothing to it. At the corner of the
jetty a band of half-sailors, half-fishermen,
beleaguered me with pulls at their forelocks.

"Want a machine, sir?" said one.

"Just look at this towel, fine white diaper,"
said another, with a white slab of a towel ba-
lanced on his hand.

No. 802 was already out. No. 910 was having
the horse put to. Screams and laughter were
pouring from 605, and from under the hood of
703 there was a splashing as if Kempenfelt and
all his men were going down together in the
Royal George with one consent. At the door
of 320 a respectable City tradesman, well known
on the Corn Exchange, was combing his hair
inside the machine, and looking wet and
bedraggled into the glass.

No. 4150 was mine. A man they call
something like " Loller" hands me three dirty-white
tickets to frank me for three mornings' admission
to the ocean— as yet unalloted or
park-paled— one shilling. Then he asks me for one
of the three, and takes it just as a man does
who is teaching you a game of cards, and is
playing both sides. I am introduced as a
victim to a brother in red-plush breeches and
jack waterproof boots, who is the driver. I am
handed two towels— sent up the steps of the
"cairywan," and shut in. I am shouted to that
when I have had enough of it I am to open the
door and call.

I am scarcely in it before the machine
begins to jolt. I feel like Jonas inside the
whale. We go out to sea. There is a chink
of chains— a crack of a whip— a shout— lower
— lower. I try to keep my footing, and feel
myself in a cart and yet in a ship. I undress and
hook up everything to the nails round the wall.
I don't know how it is, but I never in my life
went down to the sea in a bathing-machine but
I compared myself to Pharaoh entering the Red
Sea in his chariot in hot pursuit after the
Israelites. " Suppose," I say to myself, " there
was a leak in this crazy hut? suppose it broke
away from the wheel, and drifted out to sea,
to be nosed and bumped by whales, and sniffed
at by sharks? Suppose——"

Here a tremendous wave thumped at the
door, as much as to say, " Come out and let
us look at you, miserable creature of clay!"
I am now without the cloak that shadowed
Borgia— in Adam's livery— a poor forked creature
shivering as if for charity, and trembling-
like Andromeda when the great sea serpent
approached. The floor is gritty, the small
slab of carpet is sodden and briny. I undo
the door and look out, kicking down the tilted
hood, and clinging to the rope that is fastened to
the outside of the machine, and which, like everything
else belonging to it, is crisp and salt.
With crippled, crumpled step, I descend the
steps; a wave lashes up, and all but washes me
off surfing me up against the hood, and all but
whipping the rope from me. A singular creeping
feeling of the blood as I step in waist high
— a pull at my heart as if the blood were driven
back to the citadel, then rallied, and spread
victoriously through my veins— a taste of salt
surf in my mouth— now a duck under. I
emerge, blinded and dripping, and wade out
beyond the hood. I come out as from a cave, and
am in the wide, wide sea. The horizon towards
the North Foreland a line of trembling silver
— the junction of sky and sea— the welding
line— the tenderest grey blue, which is neither
opaque nor transparent— a soft apricot-coloured
bloom in the eastward, Dover way— and here
and there a sail catches the sun, and shines the
colour of a light wallflower. The chalk cliffs,
cleft in horizontal lines, and bushes with wild
mignionette and wild geranium, look blocks of
opaque silver.

But I don't come here to study landscape, but
to tear health from the jaws of the sea: and
health I will have— so here goes! How soft the
sand feels under my naked feet! I wade out to
meet the waves— one, two, three. Here comes
a huge one, cresting and combing over with a
metallic shine, but without foam: it laps over me
and lifts me off my feet. I stagger on, defiant.
Here comes one twice as high— the froth already
out there rises above my head. Nearer— firm,
prepare to receive cavalry! form square! bang!
wash! splash! It beats me over, and foams
over my head, and passes on to lash and rage up
the steps of my machine, as if it were looking
for me. I am cuffed and slapped warm, and am
in high spirits— braced and nerved. Now I
understand what Dr. Bleadon meant by always
saying to my wife, " He (meaning me) wants
bracing— he must have bracing." Here I am
bracing— hard at it! Here comes another rolling
monster. Hurrah! Brace away! I leap at it, but
it has me down and tramples on me in a moment.

I am back under the hood. I got into the
wrong machine first— they are so very much
alike— and found myself in the presence of the
Reverend Mr. Bellow, rector of the celebrated
church of St. Barabbas. But then did I not see
swimming near me just now, like a Ceylon diver
going all naked to the shark, fast young Latitat, of
the Middle Temple, swimming as if he were flying
from the bailiffs, or as if Grinder and Crusher,
the great attorneys, had sent for him to their
chambers?

As I waded up the steps I met Bellow coming
down. I bowed and he bowed—he laughed and
I laughed, and splashed off, like a merman who
has been paying a morning visit. I emerge
from the wave and climb my steps.
Delicious glow— warmth of health and life, enough
to revive a dying man— rosy glow of invigorated
and purified blood! I begin a Norse hymn
to the sea, such as " Harold of the Blue Eyes"
addressed to his sword, " the Land-giver:"

    Health-giver, I hail thee!
    Man-slayer, I fear thee!
    Hope-bringer, I greet thee!
    Dirge-singer, I fear thee!