aters of the Pool. Before they
can do this, however, they must conform to a curious old custom which
has been practised for centuries, and is retained down to the present
day. Procuring two stout leathern purses, they tie up three halfpence in
each, and then set off with them in a body to the Lord of the Manor.
Presenting him with their purses, they state their case with all due
formality, and request permission to cut their trench through the sand.
In consideration of the threepenny recognition of his rights, the Lord
of the Manor graciously accedes to the petition; and the millers, armed
with their spades and shovels, start for the Bar.

Their projected labour is of the slightest kind. A mere ditch suffices
to establish the desired communication: and the water does the rest for
itself. On one occasion, so high was the tide on one side, and so full
the lake on the other, that a man actually scraped away sand enough with
his stick, to give vent to the waters of the Pool. Thus, after no very
hard work, the millers achieve their object; and the spectators watching
on the hill, behold a startling and magnificent scene.

Tearing away the sand on either side, floods of fresh water rush out
furiously against floods of salt water leaping in, upheaved into mighty
waves by the winter gale. A foaming roaring battle between two opposing
forces of the same element takes place. The noise is terrific--it is
heard like thunder, at great distances off. At last, the heavy, smooth,
continuous flow of the fresh water prevails even over the power of the
ocean. Farther and farther out, rushing through a wider and wider
channel every minute, pour the great floods from the land, until the
salt water is stained with an ochre colour, over a surface of twenty
miles. But their force is soon spent: soon, the lake sinks lower and
lower away from the slope of the hills. Then, with the high tide, the
sea reappears triumphantly, dashing and leaping, in clouds of spray,
through the channel in the sand--making the waters of the Pool
brackish--now, threatening to swell them anew to overflowing--and now,
at the ebb, leaving them to empty themselves again, in the manner of a
great tidal river. No new change takes place, until a storm from the
south-west comes on; and then, fresh masses of sand and shingle are
forced up--the channel is refilled--the bar is reconstructed as if by a
miracle. Again, the scene resumes its old features--again, there is a
sea on