"Abstract." But this was not to be. A calm day
was, it appeared, desirable — indispensable even
—for the carrying out of my plan. It was
argued, and with some show of reason, by the
nautical gentleman whom I consulted upon the
subject, that as all the phenomena alluded to in
the list were close in-shore, the consequences of
attempt to examine them with the sea in its
present condition of roughness might be too
dreadful to think of. I was easily persuaded of
the truth of this statement. We might be
precipitated into "Frenchman's Hole," No. 7, I
argued with myself, or smashed to pieces against
the "Lady sitting in the Cliff," No. 6, and never
be heard of more.

There was nothing for it, then, but patience.
Those persons who were at the seaside during
September last will probably have no difficulty
in remembering that the month in question was
characterised by some exceedingly rough weather.
Day after day the wind blew, and the waves
dashed against the shore with such fury, that I
used sometimes to fear lest the Lady sitting in
the Cliff might be dashed to atoms, or Lord
Holmes's parlour washed into his kitchen, or
vice versa, before I should have the opportunity
of seeing either the one or the other. Meanwhile,
there was, at any rate, something now to
live for. My imagination dwelt upon these
wonders which my eyes were still forbidden to
behold. I used to gaze at the small projecting
cliff which shut in our bay, and reflect with awe
upon the marvels which lay, out of sight, beyond
it. I used to walk along the edge of the cliff
above, and crane my neck over to try and catch
a glimpse of some of them, No. 6 especially.
"Great Heaven!" I used to say to myself, "to
think of that solitary figure sitting there night
and day, tranquil and unmoved." Or take No. 7
again: "How must the waters be surging and
boiling in that whirlpool, as no doubt it is,
which goes by the name of the 'Frenchman's
Hole!'" And so I waited and speculated, and
consulted the barometer, and the weather
reports in the newspapers, and the gloomy
mariners upon the beach.

At last, when everything was looking just as
bad as it could look, when the coast was bristling
with drum signals, the barometer in the lowest
spirits, and the mariners looking to windward with
their most despondent glances, there came a day of
calm and sunshine, such as no one had expected
to see before next summer, and I was solemnly
informed that the weather was in all respects fitted
to my purpose if I still held to my determination
of going round to Alum Bay by water.

Wonderful moment when at last we turned
the corner beyond the projecting cliff, and that
mysterious bit of coast, which had so long occupied
my thoughts, lay stretched out before us.
I glanced hastily along its line — there might
have been about three miles of it visible. "To
think," I said to myself, "of all the marvels
contained in that comparatively small space!"
and my breath came thick and fast as I thought
of what was coming.

We had soon got round the comer, and were
rowing along slowly under the cliff, and very
near to it indeed. There was a curious little
hole in it, I noticed, just at the water's edge. It
was about four or five feet in diameter,
apparently, and looked if I may be allowed to use
the comparison— very like the mouth of a
London sewer. With some notion of inquiring
whether it was at this place that the drainage
of Freshwater ran into the sea, I was just
going to speak to the boatman who sat nearest
to me, when I observed that the man was now
resting tranquilly on his oar, and apparently on
the point of speaking himself; so I gave way.
I got, as a reward for my courtesy, a piece of
somewhat startling information.

"That, sir," said the boatman, pointing to
the sewer which I have described, " that is
Freshwater Cavern."

"What!" I almost shrieked. "That hole!"

"Yes, sir, that's it," replied the man with
some complacency.

I believe, in my inmost heart, that I had
no hope of anything that was to come, after
listening to these words. If this small opening
in the rock, this crevice, was regarded
by the inhabitants of the place in the light of a
cavern — Freshwater Cavern— all the rest of the
marvels noted down in that thrice- accursed
"Abstract" might simply turn out to consist of
a few accidental holes in the cliff, or bits of
rock of eccentric shape, which the nation had
chosen to call by the first high-sounding names
which came to hand.

It turned out, in fact, to be so. All the
"caverns" were of this drain-like type. Even
those caves of Neptune, "large cave two
hundred feet deep, small ninety feet," which I
had pictured to myself as vast caverns full of
green transparent water, and in whose dark
recesses I had intended to imagine the
mermaids sitting on the rock and combing their
hair, even these suggested always the sewer's
mouth so strongly that there was no room left for
any less ignoble idea. "The numerous romantic
caverns," again, in Watcombe Bay, "The Bar
Cave," it was the same with all of them — the main
drainage system brought to mind at every turn.

Lord Holmes's Parlour again. I had not
expected very much from that. No doubt, I
thought, the most will be made of a very little.
There will be a spacious cave, and in some part
of it there will be a block or blocks of stone
which will bear a curious resemblance to a
human figure sitting in a chair. Other blocks,
again, will have just enough likeness to certain
pieces of furniture for one to swear by. As
to the Kitchen, it will no doubt be necessary to
"make believe" a little, and, that done, it may
perhaps become possible to make out certain
forms in the rock, which to a strong imagination
may be dimly suggestive of a kitchen-range, a
dresser, and the like. There will, of course, be
some good old legend of the dark ages
forthcoming, some weird old story of a wicked earl
well worth hearing.

Poor pitiable delusion! There was nothing
of the sort. A certain Lord Holmes, a nobleman
concerning whom legendary lore is
silent, used sometimes, when staying in the