uch a coast, Nature never
confuses her effects--no lively verdure or picturesque landscape
intrudes upon the majesty of the sea--only damp mosses and stout
creepers veil the harsh outlines of the rocks, and, in the distance,
masses of pine trees relieve the gray monotony of the shore--for the
rest, everything is left to the sun and the sea. There are a dozen
beaches, each distinct in its charm. Some firm, smooth, and white, as a
marble walk--others mere waves of sand, which the lightest breeze
whirls--and, others, where nature seems to have exhausted her wildest
caprice, piled with rocks, black, perilous, defiant, overlooking waters
whose solitude is never broken by a sail. It is these deep waters which
have that green tint so lustrous and subtle, and as unlike the heavy
green seen in most sea pictures as it is unlike grass; it is in more
sheltered nooks that the sea assumes that sapphire sheen more ineffable
than the sky which imparts it. As the color of the sea depends greatly
upon the disposition of the surrounding lands and the prevailing
condition of the atmosphere, each little inlet has some tint or effect
of light peculiar to itself. I have seen coloring as remarkable--I had
almost said as unnatural--as that indigo blue which we connect with the
AEgean sea. Indeed, one comes to believe anything possible in the way of
sea coloring, however brilliant, or however blank, after intimate and
close observation of even a small part of the ocean. I have often
fancied that these local features may have given rise to the idea of
nymphs and mermaids, especially at night, when, in the setting sun, the
colors fade in vapory exhalations, and the waters seem haunted by the
spirits of their own beauty--pale, tremulous, waiting the vitalizing ray
of the morning light. But it is in winter that the effects of the sun on
the sea are most marvellous; this arises, in part, from the clearness of
the air, and the dazzling setting of snow, which expresses more vividly
the glow of the sea; then, too, that part of the water not exposed to
the sun has an ashen, gray tint, which intensifies, by contrast, the
more gorgeous hues. I remember many who saw Church's 'Icebergs' thought
the coloring too brilliant, while, to those familiar with the sea, it
seemed entirely natural. Thus, critics will find that it is by the study
of nature we are educated up to high art; and artists, that their great
danger is not in being more brilliant, but less delicat