"Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me
As I gaze upon the sea!
All the old romantic legends--
All my dreams come back to me."
One of the sunniest memories to all of us is the time we spent on the
cliff-tops of romantic old Dunbar. There is nothing more calculated to
give pleasure to a true Briton, unless he happens to have been born by
the beach, than a few days spent at the seaside; that is, if he or she
can have thereat some comfort. Here at Dunbar was no noise, no bustle,
no stir, and, to us, not the worry inseparable from living in lodgings.
Our little homes were all our own: we could go when we liked, do what we
liked, and there was no landlady at the week's end to present us with a
bill including _extras_.
The only noise was the beating of the waves on the black rocks far
beneath us, and the scream of sea-birds, mingling perhaps with the happy
voices of merry, laughing children.
Stretching far away eastwards was the ever-changing ocean, dotted with
many a sail or many a steamer with trailing smoke. Northwards was the
sea-girt mountain called the Bass Rock, whilst south-eastwards we could
see the coast-line stretching out to Saint Abbe Head.
We were so pleased with our bivouac on the breezy cliff-tops of Dunbar
that we made the place our headquarters, journeying therefrom, up the
romantic Tweed, visiting all the places and scenery sacred to the memory
of Scott and the bard of Ettrick.
We did not forget to make a day's voyage to the Bass Rock, and well
might we wonder at the grandeur of this wild rock, with its feathered
thousands of birds, that at times rose about like a vast and fleecy
cloud.
It was, however, no part of our ideas of happiness to in any way hamper
each other's movements. No, that would not have been true gipsy
fashion.
Sometimes, one of us would be quietly fishing from the rocks, while two
more might be out at sea in a boat, a little dark speck on the blue. As
for me, it was often my delight to--
"Lie upon the headland height and listen
To the incessant sobbing of the sea
In caverns under me.
And watch the waves that tossed and fled and glistened,
Until the rolling meadows of amethyst
Melted away in mist."
Often, when she found me all alone, Ida would pounce on me for a story.
To this child a tale told all to herself had a peculiar charm. Here is
one of our little sketches.
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