the way to get the full and perfect pleasure of staying at the
seaside than the latter is the way to get the full and perfect flavour
of the tea. True staying at the seaside is neither the repetition of old
conversations in new surroundings nor the exposure of one's affections
to ozone. It is something infinitely higher. It is pure quiescence. It
is the experience of a waking inanition savouring of Buddha and the
divine.

Now, staying at the seaside is so rarely done well, because of the
littleness of man. To do it properly needs many of the elements of
greatness. Your common man, while he has life in him, can let neither
himself nor the universe alone. He must be asserting himself in some
way, even if it is only by flinging pebbles at a stick. That
self-forgetfulness which should be a delight is a terror to him. He
brings dogs down to the beach to stand between him and the calm of
nature, and yelp. He does worse than that.

The meditative man going daily over by the cliff and along the parade,
to get his ounce of tobacco, has a sad spectacle of what human beings
may be driven to in this way. One sees altogether some hundreds of
people there who have heard perhaps that staying at the seaside is good,
and who have, anyhow, got thus far towards it, and stopped. They have
not the faintest idea how to make themselves happy. The general
expression is veiled curiosity. They sit--mostly with their backs to the
sea--talking poorly of indifferent topics and watching one another. Most
obviously they want hints of what to do with themselves. Behind them is
a bank of flowers like those in Battersea Park, and another parallel
parade, and beyond are bathing-machines. The pier completely cuts the
horizon out of the background. There is a stout lady, in dark blue,
bathing. The only glances directed seaward are furtive ones at her. Many
seem to be doubting whether this is not what they came down for. Others
lean dubiously to the invitations of the boatmen. Others again listen to
vocalists and dramatic outcasts who, for ha'pence, render obvious the
reason of their professional degradation. It seems eccentric to travel
seventy or eighty miles to hear a man without a voice demonstrate that
he is unfit to have one, but they do. Anyone curious in these matters
need only go to a watering-place to see and, what is worse, to hear for
himself. After an excursion train to Eastbourne, upwards of a thousand
people have been seen thus heaped togeth