THE BRITISH COAST.

AMONG the many blessings which science has made cheap, is that of steam locomotion by land and by sea. We have already spoken of the former in connection with railways, and their advantages in facilitating the wholesome recreation and amusement of the people. But not less beneficial and advantageous in this as well as in other respects, is the same power applied to the navigation of our rivers, lakes, and seas. While the railway locomotive traverses the length and breadth of the land, and affords a rapid and cheap access to the finest scenery of our country, the steam-boat offers the attraction of its still lower fares and more ample personal accommodation, in inducing the lovers of Nature to run away for a brief season from their ordinary occupations at the desk, the counter, or the warehouse, to inhale the fresh breezes of the ocean, and feel its cool breath blow upon them like a new life. At the moment at which we write, swift and convenient steamers are daily carrying hundreds to Margate, Ramsgate, Dover, and Deal; or further off, to Leith or Dundee, along the length of the eastern coast; or, down the Channel, past the bold cliffs of Devon and Cornwall, and westward to Cork and Dublin.

And truly a glorious coast is that which abuts on the ocean, on nearly all sides of this old cliffy Albion. Here she ruggedly and sternly dashes back the wild billows as they come tumbling in against her rocky ribs. There she spreads out in grassy downs, fringed by the pebbled strand, on which the waves leap laughing to the shore. In one place, she as if opens her arms to take the Deep to her bosom, and bays, friths, and coves afford welcome havens and secure riding for the mariner. In another, she projects some huge promontory far into the sea, fretting the angry waters that boil and dash with bellow ing roar through the caves underneath.

For so comparatively limited an extent of coast line, there is probably none in the world that presents so much variety and grandeur, as that of Britain. For picturesque beauty, what can compare with the south coast from Dover to Land's End? How full of historic interest, too, from the debarkation of Cæsar's legions under the chalk cliffs of Kent, or of the Norman invaders near Hastings, to the landing of the Prince of

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Orange in Torbay-three events that mark amongst the most memorable eras in British history.

But the grand beauty of that fine reach of coast is especially towards the west. We hold in our memory the delicious remembrance of a voyage once performed along the delightful coast stretching from Spithead to Plymouth Sound. Let us not forget to mention that lovely sail down Southampton water, with the New Forest on the one hand and the wooded fringe of Hampshire on the other; Netley Abbey peeping out amongst the trees from a green dell, in which it lies most charmingly seated. We sailed out of the noble harbour of Portsmouth, almost from under the bows of Nelson's gallant old ship, the Victory, a kind of national shrine there lying on England's element The Deep, to which thousands of visitors yearly resort to pay their affectionate tribute to the memory of their greatest naval hero. The roll of drums from the garrison, the evening gun fired from the wooden castles floating many a rood upon the deep, the frowning bastions with the guns pointed seawards, remind you on all sides that this is one of the great depôts of England's power in war. Less than an hour's steaming brought us to the beautiful coast of the Isle of Wight, sleeping in peace under the tranquil sky of evening. Passing Ryde, and Osborne, and Corfe Castle, we swept into the snugly sheltered Harbour of Cowes, the trees and green hillocks amid which the town and its villas seem to nestle, giving back the last golden rays of the setting sun. Night fell, as we steamed through the Solent, along the north coast of the Isle of Wight. One by one, the lighthouses along the coast lit up, and their friendly blaze came out, and burned clearer and clearer across the waters, as the darkness grew thicker.

This careful lighting up of our coasts for the guidance of the mariner homeward-bound, or coast-wise, by which he passes along as it were an illuminated highway, knowing at a glance, as he comes from off his two thousand miles voyage, the precise point of his native coast which he has neared, affords one of the most remarkable indications of the almost perfect state to which the contrivances of civilization have reached, as regards our commercial mechanism.

The heavy waves rolling in from the Atlantic, dashed with hoarse noise against the rocky Needles as we passed, the lights which crowned their pinnacle flashing across tho

water crests, until at length they were left far behind, and what seemed only a dim star lay against the low horizon. Before us a ship of seemingly large burden, bore in under a press of sail from the Channel, impelled by a favourable breeze. In the dim obscurity of the night, she seemed like a huge sea dragon, swimming along with her enormous wings thrown upwards to the air. But she had soon passed, and was in our wake, pursuing the course we had just traversed.

The darkness grew complete, and we saw nothing, save the lights, looking out from the numerous headlands along the coast, until early in the following morning, when the loud rushing escape of the steam from the escape-pipe, the stoppage of the grumbling machinery, and the stamping about upon the deck, announced to those who were below, that we had came to a stand. Proceeding on deck we found that we had swung round into the beautiful harbour of Torbay, and were laid alongside the little jetty of Torquay. The sun was already on the verge of the horizon, and the tips of the green hills which hem in the lovely bay, were faintly kissed by his radiance. The little terraced town lay asleep, the boats drawn up high and dry upon the beach. Sweeping round in a most graceful bend, and lipping the sandy and shingly beach, the waters lay quiet and still, disturbed only by a gentle ripple, and half-reflecting the gems of beauty along its borders, which seemed to sleep in their shadows on its bosom.

Passengers were taken on board, and again we were swiftly steaming out of the bay, and along the bold precipitous coast towards Plymouth Sound. The rugged cliffs of Start Point and Bolt Head were passed, the abrupt coast here rising up in grand majesty; watch towers, their lights now extinguished, looming up at intervals. Far in the east, like a tall white tower, rose Eddystone Lighthouse, that masterpiece of engineering skill, and perseverance. Far out at sea, as if close against the sun, was observed a tiny little boat pitching among the billows, now on the crest of a wave, now lost between their hollows. Mackerel fishers they were-thus plying their venturous calling, and seeking life, with an inch of plank between them and the deep. And thus it is that the hardy spirit of the English sailor is nursed.

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At length we rounded a sudden point, and Plymouth Sound, barricaded across by its magnificent breakwater, opened before us. Nothing can be more lovely than the scenery of this noble bay-the rocks, cliffs, verdure, and cottages, which surround it on all sides; the sudden spreading, and continuing beauty of the view as we sail along, the rolling swell of the billows now subsided into even rippling of the water, on the face of which floated tall huge ships, thunder and destruction engirdled within their massive ribs-then further up the bay, from the many inlets and harbours, a thousand masts shoot up among, between, and above the rocks and houses--then the black-toothed batteries, citadel, soldiers' barracks, and magazines. Drake's Island, leaving open a glimpse into the Hamoaze, with the mastless masses of black and chequered hulks sleeping on the smooth water; and, opposite Plymouth, the projecting points of Mount Edgcumbe Park, carpeted with smooth verdure, and streaked and dotted with noble woods, looking like solid masses of emerald cut into fret-work-still further up, on green and flowery slopes, white-washed cottage and rural villa, perhaps nestling under a cliff, court the gazer's eye as pictures of peace and English comfort; the receding and distant hills, variegated with many hues, and swept with alternations of light and shade-old dusky Dartmoor solemnly reposing above and behind the wonders and beauties at his foot; all tend to constitute a scene of beauty and enchantment, the like of which, perhaps, is not to be found throughout the whole of even this beautiful Island.

But there are many other beautiful coast scenes besides

this. From St. Abb's Head, near which Fast Castle projects on its rocky cliff, high above the sea at its base, to Dunbar,-past the rugged Bass rock, the haunt of thousands of screaming sea-birds,-past Tamtallon Castle, North Berwick Law, and up the Frith of Forth, to Edinburgh, is a glorious bit of coast for the marine artist, which Turner and Stanfield have both loved to paint. To sail up the Frith as the sun is setting, and arrive in Leith roads as the golden rays are shining on the fantastical ridge of buildings, forming the Old Town of Edinburgh, standing in strong relief against the dark range of the Pentland Hills, is a picture, which once seen, never perishes from the memory.

Nor is the western coast of Scotland without its grand beauties. Take steamer from Liverpool on a summer's afternoon for Glasgow, and the tourist will witness a succession of the most magnificent coast and island views. Skirting the bold coast of Man in the late evening, the lights already gleaming from the rocky Point of Ayre, in the early morning he will discern through the mist the wild Mull of Galloway, and the bold coast of Wigton. More northward he comes in sight of the lofty and precipitous Ailsa Crag, above a thousand feet high, like a grim ocean spectre; and as the morning sun climbs the horizon, the duskiness in which the brows of earth and the breast of the billows had been enfolded, is gradually swept off, and then he sees the white clouds of mist majestically rolling up the sides of the lofty hilis of Arran and Bute; he catches glimpses of the veteran castles of Kildonar, Mount Stewart, and Dunoon, and sweeps into the magnificent Clyde, with its glorious panorama of almost unequalled scenery, as the sun reaches his meridian glory.

Let any one, then, who feels the vapours of the city pressing heavily upon him, betake himself off to the sea forthwith. If he be "no sailor," let him contrive to get to the coast by land. Let him there inhale the fresh breath of the sea, stroll among the shells and shingles along the beach, give himself up to play like a little child, and he will return to his home and his business, perhaps a wiser and a better, but at all events, a healthier man.

INQUISITIVENESS.

Let

Ir has often struck me as curious, that those qualities which attract us towards the young, repel us from the old, and vice versa. It is not only singular, but it seems to involve a perversity which it is very difficult to understand. We cannot conceive of a lover of flowers loving a bud, but turning away with indifference from the expanded blossom, which both attract him by the same qualities in different stages of development; yet, when he deals with the buds and blossoms of humanity, he seems to act from quite different feelings. Perhaps none of us are free from these strange influences, and a few moments' consideration on a subject few think of, might throw a light upon it, and lead to useful results. any one run over the list of his aged and youthful friends, and quietly enquire of himself what it is that he likes each for. The old he probably is attracted to by that quiet sedate good-humour which sits so well upon the brow, where Time above the silvered eyebrows has ploughed his deep furrows; the young as probably attract him by their restless energy, their ready mirth, and their ever boisterous cheerfulness. If a young friend and an old one could be made to change characters, what a difference the transformation would mark in our feelings toward them. The qualities would remain just the same, but we should despise the boisterous old man as a dotard aping the manners of youth, and treat the sedate grave youngster with that reserve and caution, which is generally shown to the individual, who, according

so that she might give correct answers to his questions, which like the simple questions of most children, are puzzling to the ignorant; and as he grew older, procured for him the best instruction she could compass, and through all his after life aided his progress by her advice, making up, by earnest affection, what she lacked in knowledge; and yet if the philosopher of to day recollected that night when he sat in the high chair at the tea-table, he might trace much of his present eminence to the random remark of his father, that he was "as inquisitive as Mrs. Wilkins." A. O.

A DAY WITH MARIA EDGEWORTH.

BY AN AMERICAN.

THERE are few persons to whom the present generation of men and women owes so large a debt of gratitude for pleasant reading as to Maria Edgeworth. The writer is not sure whether "Harry and Lucy," and "Simple Susan" continue to be favourites with children. Perhaps their place has been supplied by something more "improving." "Belinda," also, and "Patronage,' and "Castle Rackrent," and "Helen," may not be sought for as of old at the circulating libraries. More highly spiced productions, probably, cause them to seem insipid. There must be some readers, however, to whom the mere mention of these books still awakens agreeable recollections, and who have found nothing in more modern fiction exactly to supply their places. Such persons will be interested in the description of a visit the writer had the privilege of paying several years since at Edgeworthtown House. He trusts that he shall be acquitted of any impropriety in publishing the details of that visit. Common usage has sanctioned similar statements in the case of other distinguished authors, and in regard to Miss Edgeworth, if the writer can convey to the public a tithe of that deep respect for her character, which the interviews to be narrated produced in his own mind, he knows that he shall be pardoned for the liberty he is taking. It was early in the morning of July day, in the year 1836 (the reader will allow me to use the first person singular), when I left Dublin for Edgeworthtown, which latter place lies fifty-three Irish miles distant from the other in a north-westerly direction. On leaving the city we passed the fine buildings erected for the Law Courts, the barracks, the Military Hospital, and Phoenix Park. We saw at a distance the spire of the mad-house in which Swift spent some of the latter and most melancholy days of his life. Our road led us through Maynooth, where the large Roman Catholic College is situated, and Mullingar. There was little, however, to interest me on the way, excepting the beggars who surrounded the coach at every stopping place, and were most importunate in their demands, whining, blessing, flattering, praying, and groaning in melancholy chorus. The sight was a distressing one, and only rendered tolerable by the reflection that this was made a matter of business with many of the poor creatures, and much of the grief and affliction was put on for the occasion.

I reached the inn at Edgeworthtown at half-past two in the afternoon, and immediately sent a package with which I had been charged, together with a letter of introduction, and my card to the authoress. Shortly afterwards the servant returned, bearing Mrs. and Miss Edgeworth's compliments, and an invitation to visit them. I walked forthwith to the house, which was at no great distance from the inn. I entered the grounds by the gate at the porter's lodge, and followed a broad gravelled drive, which wound through a beautiful lawn adorned by clumps of elms. This brought me to the great hall door of the mansion, which was square in shape, large and commodious, and painted of a yellowish colour.

It was partly surrounded by flower-gardens, and had on one side verandas and trellis-work, covered with clusA servant received me at the entrance, tering roses. and passing through the hall, which was ornamented with family portraits, and specimens of natural history, ushered me into the library, where a number of ladies were sitting, engaged in writing and sewing. One of them rose and accosted me, and I recognised Miss Edgeworth at once from descriptions of her which I had already received. She was a very short and spare person, and appeared to be between fifty and sixty years of age, although she must have been at that time not less than seventy. Her face had no very striking features. It expressed, however, in a marked degree good sense and benevolence. If there was anything peculiar in her physiognomy, it was the space between the eyes, which was very broad and flat. The forehead also was broad, while the lower part of the face about the mouth and chin was quite narrow. Her eyes were small, and of a colour between grey and hazel. They assumed a very pleasant expression when she smiled and half closed them. Her nose was nearly straight, and mouth small and slightly compressed. She wore a slate-coloured gown and a plain cap, with brown hair (a frizette, I thought) in small curls around her forehead. If her appearance was ordinary, her voice and manner were exceedingly kind and engaging. She presented me to the widow of her father, a lady of much dignity of address, and who preserved a great deal of bloom, although her hair was quite grey. Another elderly lady and two younger women were in the room, who I afterwards learned were relatives of the family. The apartment was large and well lighted, and combined all the conveniences of a library and the elegancies of a lady's parlour. There was a range of square pillars at the sides where a partition had apparently been taken down. In the recesses thus formed, and elsewhere beside the walls, well-fitted book-cases extended half-way to the ceiling, the spaces above being occupied by oil-paintings and engravings. Among them were likenesses of Ricardo, the political economist, Sir Walter Scott, Madame De Stael, Talleyrand, Lord Longford, and Napoleon. Tables covered with books, writing materials, needle-work, and baskets of flowers stood in different parts of the room, and about the grate, in which a fire of peat was burning, large, easy-looking chairs were disposed. Everything wore an air of comfort and refined taste, and it was at once to be seen that the usual occupants of that apartment devoted themselves to pursuits both rational and delightful. Here it was, as Miss Edgeworth afterwards told me, that all her books were written. She worked there, she said, surrounded by the different members of her family, often reading to them what she had just before composed, and receiving their corrections and suggestions. And, indeed, it was the very place in which one might suppose those elegant conversations, so full of wit and common sense, which abound in her novels, had been conceived. That cheerful library parlour seemed to be the home of all domestic virtues and graces. Nobody who lived in it could be dull, or ungenial, or unhappy.

After luncheon, which was served in the dining-room, a most interesting conversation took place. Miss Edgeworth talked a great deal, and all that she said was full of practical good sense and kindness of heart. The topics, at first, in compliment to her guest, related principally to America. Upon these subjects, particularly those connected with government and literature, she showed accurate information and liberal opinions. She appeared to be familiar with our best authors, and to have a proper appreciation of their merits, making discriminating remarks, I remember, respecting Irving, Willis, and Hoffman. We spoke of Indian words and their pronunciation, and she seemed pleased to be informed how Michigan, Hobomok, and other names were pronounced.