Here can I frame a story of two lovers， and make theirshadows live before me and be mirrored in the tranquilwater as they tread along the sand， leaving no footprints.
Here， should I will it， I can summon up a single shadeand be myself her lover. Yes， dreamer， but your lonelyheart will be the colder for such fancies. Sometimes， too，the Past comes back， and finds me here， and in her traincome faces which were gladsome when I knew them，yet seem not gladsome now. Would that my hiding-placewere lonelier， so that the Past might not find me！ —Getye all gone， old friends， and let me listen to the murmurof the sea—a melancholy voice， but less sad than yours.
Of what mysteries is it telling？ Of sunken ships andwhereabouts they lie？ Of islands afar and undiscoveredwhose tawny children are unconscious of other islands andof continents， and deem the stars of heaven their nearestneighbors？ Nothing of all this. What， then？ Has it talkedfor so many ages and meant nothing all the while？ No； forthose ages find utterance in the sea’s unchanging voice，and warn the listener to withdraw his interest from mortalvicissitudes and let the infinite idea of eternity pervadehis soul. This is wisdom， and therefore will I spend thenext half-hour in shaping little boats of driftwood andlaunching them on voyages across the cove， with thefeather of a sea-gull for a sail. If the voice of ages tell metrue， this is as wise an occupation as to build ships offive hundred tons and launch them forth upon the main，bound to “Far Cathay.” Yet how would the merchant sneerat me！
And， after all， can such philosophy be true？ MethinksI could find a thousand arguments against it. Well， then，let yonder shaggy rock mid-deep in the surf—see！ he issomewhat wrathful： he rages and roars and foams， —letthat tall rock be my antagonist， and let me exercise myoratory like him of Athens who bandied words with anangry sea and got the victory. My maiden-speech is atriumphant one， for the gentleman in seaweed has nothingto 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.
Oh what joy for a shy man to feel himself so solitary thathe may lift his voice to its highest pitch without hazard ofa listener！ —But hush！ Be silent， my good friend！ Whencecomes that stifled laughter？ It was musical， but how shouldthere be such music in my solitude？ Looking upward， Icatch a glimpse of three faces peeping from the summit ofthe cliff like angels between me and their native sky. Ah，fair girls！ you may make yourself merry at my eloquence，but it was my turn to smile when I saw your white feet inthe pool. Let us keep each other’s secrets.
The sunshine has now passed from my hermitage， excepta gleam upon the sand just where it meets the sea. A crowdof gloomy fantasies will come and haunt me if I tarry longerhere in the darkening twilight of these gray rocks. Thisis a dismal place in some moods of the mind. Climb we，therefore， the precipice， and pause a moment on the brinkgazing down into that hollow chamber by the deep wherewe have been what few can be—sufficient to our ownpastime. Yes， say the word outright： self-sufficient to ourown happiness. How lonesome looks the recess now， anddreary too， like all other spots where happiness has been！
There lies my shadow in the departing sunshine with itshead upon the sea. I will pelt it with pebbles. A hit！ a hit！ Iclap my hands in triumph， and see my shadow clapping itsunreal hands and claiming the triumph for itself. What asimpleton must I have been all day， since my own shadowmakes a mock of my fooleries！
Homeward！ homeward！ It is time to hasten home. It istime—it is time； for as the sun sinks over the western wavethe sea grows melancholy and the surf has a saddenedtone. The distant sails appear astray and not of earthin their remoteness amid the desolate waste. My spiritwanders forth afar， but finds no resting-place and comesshivering back. It is time that I were hence. But grudge menot the day that has been spent in seclusion which yet wasnot solitude， since the great sea has been my companion，and the little sea-birds my friends， and the wind has toldme his secrets， and airy shapes have flitted around me inmy hermitage. Such companionship works an effect upona man’s character as if he had been admitted to the societyof creatures that are not mortal. And when， at noontide，I tread the crowded streets， the influence of this day willstill be felt； so that I shall walk among men kindly and asa brother， with affection and sympathy， but yet shall notmelt into the indistinguishable mass of humankind. I shallthink my own thoughts and feel my own emotions andpossess my individuality unviolated.
But it is good at the eve of such a day to feel and knowthat there are men and women in the world. That feelingand that knowledge are mine at this moment， for on theshore， far below me， the fishing-party have landed fromtheir skiff and are cooking their scaly prey by a fire ofdriftwood kindled in the angle of two rude rocks. Thethree visionary girls are likewise there. In the deepeningtwilight， while the surf is dashing near their hearth， theruddy gleam of the fire throws a strange air of comfortover the wild cove， bestrewn as it is with pebbles andseaweed and exposed to the “melancholy main.” Moreover， asthe smoke climbs up the precipice， it brings with it a savorysmell from a pan of fried fish and a black kettle of chowder，and reminds me that my dinner was nothing but bread andwater and a tuft of samphire and an apple. Methinks theparty might find room for another guest at that flat rockwhich serves them for a table； and if spoons be scarce， Icould pick up a clam-shell on the beach. They see me now；and—the blessing of a hungry man upon him！ —one ofthem sends up a hospitable shout： “Halloo， Sir Solitary！
Come down and sup with us！” The ladies wave theirhandkerchiefs. Can I decline？ No； and be it owned， afterall my solitary joys， that this is the sweetest moment of aday by the seashore.