But it was a very special day when that
happened.
I have done a little serious climbing since those days, but not
any which was more enjoyable. The sea was never more than a foot
below us and never more than two feet deep, but the shock of
falling into it would have been momentarily as great as that of
falling down a precipice. You had therefore the two joys of
climbing--the physical pleasure of the accomplished effort, and
the glorious mental reaction when your heart returns from the
middle of your throat to its normal place in your chest. And you
had the additional advantages that you couldn't get killed, and
that, if an insuperable difficulty presented itself, you were not
driven back, but merely waited five minutes for the tide to lower
itself and disclose a fresh foothold.
But, as I say, these are not joys for the modern child. The tide,
I dare say, is not what it was --it does not, perhaps, go down so
certainly. Or the cliffs are of a different and of an inferior
shape. Or people are no longer so ignorant as to mistake the
nature of your position. One way or another I expect I do better
in Fleet Street. I shall stay and imagine myself by the sea; I
shall not disappoint myself with the reality.
But I imagine myself away from bands and piers; for a band by a
moonlit sea calls you to be very grown-up, and the beach and the
crabs --such as are left--call you to be a child; and between the
two you can very easily be miserable.
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