In honest truth, vowed to solitude as I am, there is something in this
encounter that makes the heart flutter with a strangely pleasant
sensation. I know these girls to be realities of flesh and blood,
yet, glancing at them so briefly, they mingle like kindred creatures
with the ideal beings of my mind. It is pleasant, likewise, to gaze
down from some high crag, and watch a group of children, gathering
pebbles and pearly shells, and playing with the surf, as with old
Ocean's hoary beard. Nor does it infringe upon my seclusion, to see
yonder boat at anchor off the shore, swinging dreamily to and fro, and
rising and sinking with the alternate swell; while the crew--four
gentlemen, in round-about jackets--are busy with their fishing-lines.
But, with an inward antipathy and a headlong flight, do I eschew the
presence of any meditative stroller like myself, known by his pilgrim
staff, his sauntering step, his shy demeanor, his observant yet
abstracted eye. From such a man, as if another self had scared me, I
scramble hastily over the rocks, and take refuge in a nook which many
a secret hour has given me a right to call my own. I would do battle
for it even with the churl that should produce the title-deeds. Have
not my musings melted into its rocky walls and sandy floor, and made
them a portion of myself?

It is a recess in the line of cliffs, walled round by a rough, high
precipice, which almost encircles and shuts in a little space of sand.
In front, the sea appears as between the pillars of a portal. In the
rear, the precipice is broken and intermixed with earth, which gives
nourishment not only to-clinging and twining shrubs, but to trees,
that gripe the rock with their naked roots, and seem to struggle hard
for footing and for soil enough to live upon. These are fir-trees;
but oaks hang their heavy branches from above, and throw down acorns