368 THE BIRD WATCHER 
the “thens,” the shggkows—a dream, and so is every- 
thing. 
This was my last discovery—for it was one for me. 
Soon after I made it I left this wild northern promon- 
tory, regretting, as I shall ever regret, that there is no 
comfortable little cottage upon it where I might stay, 
and be looked after—have my porridge made—for 
several months at a time. To be able to walk out 
from as much of civilisation as this would amount to 
into absolute wildness and solitude, returning into it 
again at the end of each day—that is the life I appre- 
ciate. For society there would be the good old body 
who cooked for me, and her husband—a fisherman, 
doubtless, with his tales of the sea. With them I 
could have a crack when I wished to, nor ever sigh 
for anything higher, since the homely utterances and 
out-of-the-heart-comings of simple country folks, 
especially of “‘the old folks, time’s doting chroniclers,” 
have for long been all I care for in the way of con- 
versation. All other irks me, and my mind soon 
grows confused in it, so that I seem to have no ideas 
at all, and indeed, have none for the time, except a 
panting to be gone. Therefore, for the world of men 
and women here—those masks, those flesh-enshrouded 
spirits, never to be properly dug up or pierced into, 
give me but books, and for my own little circle of 
daily life, it lives in Miss Austen’s novels, nor do I 
ever want to enlarge it. How many readers are there 
who can say this—that they have ever had one friend 
or acquaintance with whose loss they could not better 
