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 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 driftwood 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 seaweed 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.  Oh 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 stifled laughter?  It was musical, but how should there be such music in my solitude?  Looking upward, I catch a glimpse of three faces peeping from the summit of the 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 in the pool.  Let us keep each other’s secrets.