that my hiding-place were lonelier, so that the past might not find
me! Get ye all gone, old friends, and let me listen to the murmur of
the sea,--a melancholy voice, but less sad than yours. Of what
mysteries is it telling? Of sunken ships, and whereabouts they lie?
Of islands afar and undiscovered, whose tawny children are unconscious
of other islands and of continents, and deem the stars of heaven their
nearest neighbors? Nothing of all this. What then? Has it talked for
so many ages, and meant nothing all the while--No; for those ages find
utterance in the sea's unchanging voice, and warn the listener to
withdraw his interest from mortal vicissitudes, and let the infinite
idea of eternity pervade his soul. This is wisdom; and, therefore,
will I spend the next half-hour in shaping little boats of drift-wood,
and launching them on voyages across the cove, with the feather of a
sea-gull for a sail. If the voice of ages tell me true, this is as
wise an occupation as to build ships of five hundred tons, and launch
them forth upon the main, bound to "far Cathay." Yet, how would the
merchant sneer at me!

And, after all, can such philosophy be true? Methinks I could find a
thousand arguments against it. Well, then, let yonder shaggy rock,
mid-deep in the surf,--see! he is somewhat wrathful,--he rages and
roars and foams,--let that tall rock be my antagonist, and let me
exercise my oratory like him of Athens, who bandied words with an
angry sea and got the victory. My maiden speech is a triumphant one;
for the gentleman in sea-weed has nothing to offer in reply, save an
immitigable roaring. His voice, indeed, will be heard a long while
after mine is hushed. Once more I shout, and the cliffs reverberate
the sound. O, what joy for a shy man to feel himself so solitary,
that he may lift his voice to its highest pitch without hazard of a
listener! But, hush!--be silent, my good friend!--whence comes that