And how we saw (for
there could be no mistake about it there) that the Chine was being
hollowed out by the springs which broke out high up the cliff, and by the
rain which wore the sand into furrowed pinnacles and peaks. You
recollect the beautiful place, and how, when we looked back down it we
saw between the miniature mountain walls the bright blue sea, and heard
it murmur on the sands outside. So I verily believe we might have done,
if we had stood somewhere at the bottom of this glen thousands of years
ago. We should have seen the sea in front of us; or rather, an arm of
the sea; for Finchampstead ridges opposite, instead of being covered with
farms, and woodlands, and purple heath above, would have been steep
cliffs of sand and clay, just like those you see at Bournemouth now;
and--what would have spoilt somewhat the beauty of the sight--along the
shores there would have floated, at least in winter, great blocks and
floes of ice, such as you might have seen in the tideway at King's Lynn
the winter before last, growling and crashing, grubbing and ploughing the
sand, and the gravel, and the mud, and sweeping them away into seas
towards the North, which are now all fruitful land. That may seem to you
like a dream: yet it is true; and some day, when we have another talk
with Madam How, I will show even a child like you that it was true.
But what could change a beautiful Chine like that at Bournemouth into a
wide sloping glen like this of Bracknell's Bottom, with a wood like
Coombs', many acres large, in the middle of it? Well now, think.
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