it is grand in its death. Its dazzling crest becomes its winding-sheet; lashed into a cloud of infinite particles, and iridescent with colour, it is scattered hither and thither by the wind, and sinks exhausted to vanish for

ever.

The deeper parts of the waves plunge into every seam and cranny in the rocks, leaving, as they retire, numberless white eddies which rush down to rejoin the foaming, boiling mass below. The billows seem as though they were intent on pulling the solid rocks to pieces. This they have done and are doing, even grinding them to powder. But how slowly it is done, and how little we can perceive of their influence, excepting in what we know must have taken thousands of years to accomplish! As we gaze on the conflict we hear the hollow boom of the wave as it turns over, the hard blow of its impact, the sharp sounds of the falling spray, and the splashing and toiling of the waves among themselves. It is a grand symphony; and when the rocks are steep and go deep into the water, the sound attains a thunderous roar.

But on a pebbly open beach we hear music of a less solemn kind. It is shriller and not so deep or full. As the waves advance we may catch the sharp and crackling sound of the stones as they are rolled over and against each other, or, lifted by the water, fall again with a short, angry note.

The one is the deep and solemn diapason of the sea, the thunder of some mighty deep-toned orchestra; the other, less majestic, less awful, the sound of weaker instruments. In one, the waters meet the opposing cliffs in mightiest conflict, giving forth their energy in dreadful power and awe; the other is the lashing of the angry waves on enemies well-nigh subdued, and over whom they reign triumphant.

But amid the vast tempestuous voices of the sea, there is one than which there is no grander, no more aweinspiring, sound in Nature. It is the pitiless roar, the baffled cry, of a mighty wave as it rushes, with fearful force, into some cavern, where it becomes locked, and can only escape by retreating. Then the very earth appears to shake with agony; the water, caught as in a death-trap, gives out one solemn, all-powerful, sullen sound, too fearful to be borne. This is followed by a period of silence until the wave retires with fretful mutterings over its repulse. Again and again it returns to the attack, again and again to be driven back.

On the sea, in its angry as in its peaceful moods, the sun pours down its brightest beams. The gentle waves, sparkling with a thousand facets, reflect its light; the raging foam, under its influence, becomes a dazzling white, and the spray shines forth clad in the blending tints of the rainbow. Nature then gives us her most beautiful aspects of the changing, restless world of water. But there is another which appeals far more to our sense of sadness and dreariness, which is very grand, but also very awful.

The sky is overcast with heavy clouds; the wind is rushing along, charged with pelting rain. We wander along the high cliffs, which fall perpendicularly down to the boiling surf below; we hear the thunder tones of the sea in chorus with the sounds of tumultuous wind and rain.

Suddenly a glare lights up the gloom, followed almost instantly by peal on peal of thunder; the very elements seem to have met in awful combat-sky answering to sea, and sea to sky. Our feet sink into the oozy, slippery turf; we run some risk of a sudden gust catching us unawares and hurling us to the ground, or possibly carrying us below. We look down, and see a pitiless war raging around the coast; we look up, and see only the grey scud flying above

us, and feel the cold rain beating on our faces. We cannot see far, for the rain has cast a gauzy mantle around us. We hear only the booming and echoing sounds of Nature at war, the occasional shrill cry of some distressed sea bird, or the bleating of a solitary mountain sheep. Our sense of desolation is complete. We would fain hurry away, but the scene has a weird fascination for us; we feel the wild warring of the lifeless elements to be strangely exhilarating. We pursue our course, for it is not every day that we may come in touch with Nature so transfigured. The impressions we receive at such times sink deeper and last longer than others less awful. We would not willingly miss an experience which we may often recall in after years, perhaps not without a shudder, but at the same time with a grateful consciousness that we saw then a little further into Nature's wonderful way of working than we had done before. We become conscious of the completing of a cycle, a course constantly being followed along innumerable. paths, in the working out of Nature's laws. We see the child Rain, returning from its long, mysterious journey, again to rejoin the parent Sea, each performing its own task pitilessly and unrelentingly, but surely; heeding no more the drowning mariner than the hard overhanging cliff on which we stand. And yet both owe their present awful aspect to the silent but powerful influence of that luminary now hidden from our sight!

There are conditions, I suppose, under which each sympathetic soul feels compelled to form a philosophy of its own; it may be, perhaps, too deep for words. But that we may be content to leave for the hidden chambers of the heart, if only we can grasp one truth as we listen to the of the sea. message

The rain ceases; the wind, having spent its energy, now fans our faces with a touch of refreshing gentleness. The