It Is As If One Had Accidentally Discovered The
Existence Of A Little Fantastic Realm, A Survival From A
Remote Past, Almost At One's Doors; A Small Independent
Province, Untouched By Progress, Asking To Be Conquered And
Its Antediluvian Constitution Taken From It.
From the summit of that commanding hill, over which the red
path winds, a noble view presents itself of
The Chesil Bank,
or of about ten miles of it, running straight as any Roman
road, to end beneath the rugged stupendous cliffs of Portland.
The ocean itself, and not conquering Rome, raised this
artificial-looking wall or rampart to stay its own proud
waves. Formed of polished stones and pebbles, about two
hundred yards in width, flat-topped, with steeply sloping
sides, at this distance it has the appearance of a narrow
yellow road or causeway between the open sea on one hand and
the waters of the Fleet, a narrow lake ten miles long, on the
other.
When the mackerel visit the coast, and come near enough to be
taken in a draw-net, every villager who owns a share (usually
a tenth) in a fishing-boat throws down his spade or whatever
implement he happens to have in his hand at the moment, and
hurries away to the beach to take his share in the fascinating
task. At four o'clock one morning a youth, who had been down
to the sea to watch, came running into the village uttering
loud cries which were like excited yells - a sound to rouse the
deepest sleeper.
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