on the beach, and shed their withering foliage upon the waves. At
this autumnal season, the precipice is decked with variegated
splendor; trailing wreaths of scarlet flaunt from the summit downward;
tufts of yellow-flowering shrubs, and rose-bushes, with their reddened
leaves and glossy seed-berries, sprout from each crevice; at every
glance, I detect some new light or shade of beauty, all contrasting
with the stern, gray rock. A rill of water trickles down the cliff
and fills a little cistern near the base. I drain it at a draught,
and find it fresh and pure. This recess shall be my dining-hall.
And what the feast? A few biscuits, made savory by soaking them in
seawater, a tuft of samphire gathered from the beach, and an apple for
the dessert. By this time, the little rill has filled its reservoir
again; and, as I quaff it, I thank God morn heartily than for a civic
banquet, that he gives me the healthful appetite to make a feast of
bread and water.

Dinner being over, I throw myself at length upon the sand, and,
basking in the sunshine, let my mind disport itself at will. The
walls of this my hermitage have no tongue to tell my follies, though I
sometimes fancy that they have ears to hear them, and a soul to
sympathize. There is a magic in this spot. Dreams haunt its
precincts, and flit around me in broad sunlight, nor require that
sleep shall blindfold me to real objects, ere these be visible. Here
can I frame a story of two lovers, and make their shadows live before
me, and be mirrored in the tranquil water, as they tread along the
sand, leaving no footprints. Here, should I will it, I can summon up
a single shade, and be myself her lover. Yes, dreamer,--but your
lonely heart will be the colder for such fancies. Sometimes, too, the
Past comes back, and finds me here, and in her train come faces which
were gladsome, when I knew them, yet seem not gladsome now. Would