CORRESPONDENCE.
AN ENCAMPMENT BY THE SEA.
[FROM A CORRESPONDENT.]
ONE sunny August morning, we set out on a ramble over the pebbly shore of one of the Eastern Counties. Our expedition must have been the outcome of an unusually violent attack of the Englishman's craze for exploring, for nothing surely could have been less suited to stimulate a pedestrian's energies than the view of the monotonous line of flat coast, made up of a belt of shingly beach, with here and there a strip of sand showing, and backed by dwarfed sand-hills and treeless, marshy levels, the whole looking fatiguingly hot in the glare of the morning sun. Just as we were growing heartily weary of the sight of the hot-looking beach and of the sound of our feet crunching through the yielding shingle, a turn round an angle or " ness " of the coast brought us within view of a quite unex- pected scene. The beach here is flatter and broader than it has been, and is broken up into a number of tiny terraces. On the higher levels of the shingle the sand is so abundant as to tempt the long, reed-like grass and the hardy sea-holly to stray down the beach, and to entice even the inland bracken to venture a few steps over the pebbles. The beach is sheltered from the westerly land winds by a belt of sand-bills, which here begin to assume larger dimensions, and a little further on harden into something like a low cliff. On a patch of low ground behind the sand- hills is a cluster of small cottages. Further off, on the higher ground above the rudimentary cliff, there stands out boldly, as if conscious of its official dignity, a severely correct-looking Coastguard station ; while just beyond this, in pleasing con- trast, there peeps out shyly above the dense mass of foliage which encloseii it, the high thatched roof of what looks like a goodly country-house. All this, however, forms but the accessories of the picture before us. The central subject is a group of tents and wooden buildings, scattered about the upper levels of the beach among the sand and patches of vigorous green. The white tents gleaming in the sun are of the well- known military pattern. The wooden structures are small, simple in design, and gaily tinted, reminding us strongly of the toy-houses of our early days. This morning, a number of young girls may be seen loitering about the houses. Their hair is down, and in some other respects they seem regardless of the nicer ordinances of society with respect to toilet. At the sight of strangers they back shyly into the doorways, and presently we spy here and there, peering inquiringly over the heads of a group of maidens, the face of a matron rubicund with culinary operations. Interspersed among these dainty tents and chalets are boatmen's houses, which contrast oddly enough with the . other buildings, in their highly irregular form, their deep black hue, and their general look of heaviness. Some of these are storehouses for the fishermen's gear. A few, however, may at once be picked out as dwellings, by their trim casements, their smoke-capped chimneys, and their quaint little gardens. These last are small patches of sandy ground, duly fenced in with dwarf palings, where a sickly-looking geranium or two are doing their best to keep up the pretence of a rural cottage. There are no signs of human activity about the fishermen's huts to-day, for the men are away in search of the now rare sole, while the women are in request at the tents and chfilets. A certain degree of animation is, however, supplied to this part of the • scene by the presence of a respect- able company of fowls, which spreads itself over the sandy patches about the buildings, their quiet, reflective step being ever and again exchanged for a mad run, at the blatant summons of some officious leader. They cannot, we reflect, gather much forage on this barren beach, and possibly, to their scantily-fed appetites, the discovery of a stray crumb or two, or even of a sun-parched fish, counts as an occasion for loud exultation. Some way below this populated region of the beach, we observe a line of boats drawn up well above the high-water mark, close to a row of vertical winches. Some of these seem to have just returned from a cruise, for their brown sails hang but half-furled in graceful folds, adding another touch of warm colouring to the beach-picture. Further down, still at the edge of the sea, our eye falls on a line of children, who, arrayed in the most niglige -of costumes, appear. to be revelling in the amphibious life of tropical islanders.
A queer, motley spectacle, we observe to one another, is this settlement on the beach. It looks like a grotesque attempt to unite the comfort and even the elegance of civilisation with the barrenness of the savage condition. It is the blending of the gaiety of ape champare with the grim seriousness of daily toil in the shadow of poverty and of death. The merry occupants of the tents and dainty huts turn out on inquiry to be visitors from an adjacent town. They appear to have taken up their quarters on the beach for want of the more customary kind of sea-side accom- modation. However this be, here they are leading a half-gipsy life, and already catching something of the gipsy look. They evidently take pleasure in their unconventional mode of life, and extract a good deal of merriment out of the little difficulties to which it gives rise. Perhaps (if the evolutionist is right), in their childish glee there are vague recallings of a far-off, free, ancestral life between the amplitudes of earth and sky. But in reality, their reversion to primitive ways is only a very half-hearted affair. As we accept the friendly offer of one of the rubicund matrons and look into her tent, we find elaborate cooking processes carried out cleanlily, and even inodorously, by aid of the latest and most improved gas apparatus. In the but close by which serves as a dwelling-house for the same family (and where space is economised in a manner that suggests the activity of a con- structive genius), we note a degree of neatness and prettiness which betrays a mind dependent on tasteful surroundings. It proves, indeed, to be a truly charming interior, with the light stains of the woodwork, the bright colouring of the chintz hangings which divide one tiny apartment from another, and the lustre of bits of china and plate distributed on shelf and bracket. The more solid comforts of life are secured to our -settlers by the periodic call of the tradesman from the neighbouring town. So far as we can ascertain, this sea-aide colony is the freest of communities. It is open to all comers. Anybody may pitch a tent where he likes, provided he does not come too near the abode of an earlier settler. Or, if he prefer, he may ereot a permanent hut, by merely asking the consent of the lord of the manor, and paying a nominal " quit-rent." The result, so far as we can make out, is a society of a distinctly re- publican cast. Social grades seem to be ignored, there is no " differentiation " as yet of east and west ends, but the doctor's family lives in friendly proximity to that of the thrifty mechanic. Possibly, these fraternal relations are due to the uniting forces of a common sentiment, a passion for the sea. There can
be but little entertainment here beyond the delights of bathing and "paddling," and it is pretty safe to assume that everybody comes here in order to get as much sea water and sea air as possible.
We paid a second visit to this encampment on the beach towards the end of a rainy September. It now wore quite another aspect. The white tents have vanished, and the dainty huts look cheerless and deserted, with their closed doors and curtained windows. There is no more rustling of quick, young feet, no more clear treble laughter on the beach. A solitary fisherman is absorbed in the work of repairing his boat. At the door of one of the fishermen's huts stands a slender, middle-aged woman, looking out at us as though puzzled by our appearance. Her husband, she tells us, is dead, and her two sons are off elsewhere, with wives to care for. Through the long winter, when the light-hearted visitors from town are happy in their snug homes, she will be alone in the rude but on the beach. How will she feel, when there is nothing for the eye but the dull gleam of the sea-foam beyond the driving mist, while the ear is burdened and wearied by the continuous screaming of the wind and hoarse roaring of the breakers ? Will her mind then occupy itself in working out its own theory of the worth of life, or will her brain be lulled by the very poverty of her surroundings into such a condition of torpor as precludes thinking ? Even the roving bands of fowls seem to-day to share in the prevailing depression, for their cacklings are less hearty, and their movements less spirited. Perhaps they, too, are missing the summer visitons The chilling gloominess of the scene is completed by the pre- sence of a belated party of excursionists. They consist of a sorry-looking man, apparently a small farmer, his wife, and seven children, close on one another's heels in the matter of age. They move dejectedly along the sea edge, without interest or purpose, as if compelled by some dire necessity. The dismal impression of the whole scene is relieved by one feature, a single bathing-machine, left low down on the beach, which throws itself back, and looks out over the vast, sullen waters in a comical attitude of pugilistic defiance. We half hope the cumbrous vehicle may be allowed to remain where it is through the winter, on the chance of its bringing to the torpid sense of our poor solitary dim previsions of a returning slimmer, and of fresh outbursts of young merriment upon the beach.
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