Footprints on the Sea-Shore

From "Twice Told Tales"

It must be a spirit much unlike my own, which can keep itself in
health and vigor without sometimes stealing from the sultry sunshine
of the world, to plunge into the cool bath of solitude. At intervals,
and not infrequent ones, the forest and the ocean summon me--one with
the roar of its waves, the other with the murmur of its boughs--forth
from the haunts of men. But I must wander many a mile, ere I could
stand beneath the shadow of even one primeval tree, much less be lost
among the multitude of hoary trunks, and hidden from earth and sky by
the mystery of darksome foliage. Nothing is within my daily reach
more like a forest than the acre or two of woodland near some suburban
farm-house. When, therefore, the yearning for seclusion becomes a
necessity within me, I am drawn to the sea-shore, which extends its
line of rude rocks and seldom-trodden sands, for leagues around our
bay. Setting forth at my last ramble, on a September morning, I
bound myself with a hermit's vow, to interchange no thoughts with man
or woman, to share no social pleasure, but to derive all that day's
enjoyment from shore, and sea, and sky,--from my soul's communion with
these, and from fantasies, and recollections, or anticipated
realities. Surely here is enough to feed a human spirit for a single
day. Farewell, then, busy world! Till your evening lights shall
shine along the street,--till they gleam upon my sea-flushed face, as
I tread homeward,--free me from your ties, and let me be a peaceful
outlaw.

Highways and cross-paths are hastily traversed, and, clambering down a
crag, I find myself at the extremity of a long beach. How gladly does
the spirit leap forth, and suddenly enlarge its sense of being to the
full extent of the broad, blue, sunny deep! A greeting and a homage
to the Sea! I descend over its margin, and dip my hand into the wave
that meets me, and bathe my brow. That far-resounding roar is Ocean's
voice of welcome. His salt breath brings a blessing along with it.
Now let us pace together--the reader's fancy arm in arm with mine--
this noble beach, which extends a mile or more from that craggy
promontory to yonder rampart of broken rocks. In front, the sea; in
the rear, a precipitous bank, the grassy verge of which is breaking
away, year after year, and flings down its tufts of verdure upon the
barrenness below. The beach itself is a broad space of sand, brown
and sparkling, with hardly any pebbles intermixed. Near the water's
edge there is a wet margin, which glistens brightly in the sunshine,
and reflects objects like a mirror; and as we tread along the
glistening border, a dry spot flashes around each footstep, but grows
moist again, as we lift our feet. In some