es embosomed
in the hills, which rise sharply on either side of it, while behind
stretches a rich, undulating country, thickly dotted with orchards and
snug homesteads, with lanes bright with wildflowers and ferns, with
high hedges and trees meeting overhead. The cold breezes, which render
so bare of interest the walks round the great majority of our seaside
towns, pass harmlessly over the valley of the Sid, where the vegetation
is as bright and luxuriant as if the ocean lay leagues away, instead of
breaking on the shore within a few feet of the front line of houses.

The cliffs which, on either side, rise from the water's edge, are
neither white like those to the east, nor grey as are the rugged
bulwarks to the west. They are of a deep red, warm and pleasant to the
eye, with clumps of green showing brightly up against them on every
little ledge where vegetation can get a footing; while the beach is
neither pebble, nor rock, nor sand, but a smooth, level surface sloping
evenly down; hard and pleasant to walk on when the sea has gone down,
and the sun has dried and baked it for an hour or two; but slippery and
treacherous when freshly wetted, for the red cliffs are of clay. Those
who sail past in a boat would hardly believe that this is so, for the
sun has baked its face, and the wind dried it, till it is cracked and
seamed, and makes a brave imitation of red granite; but the clammy
ooze, when the sea goes down, tells its nature only too plainly, and
Sidmouth will never be a popular watering place for children, for there
is no digging sand castles here, and a fall will stain light dresses
and pinafores a ruddy hue, and the young labourers will look as if they
had been at work in a brick field.

But a century since, the march of improvement had nowhere begun; and
there were few larger, and no prettier, seaside villages on the coast
than Sidmouth.

It was an afternoon in August. The sun was blazing down hotly, scarce a
breath of wind was stirring, and the tiny waves broke along the shore
with a low rustle like that of falling leaves. Some fishermen were at
work, recaulking a boat hauled up on the shore. Others were laying out
some nets to dry in the sun. Some fisher boys were lying asleep, like
dogs basking in the heat; and a knot of lads, sitting under the shade
of a boat, were discussing with some warmth the question of smuggling.

"What do you say to it, Jim Walsham?" one of the party said, looking up
at a boy some