I always liked moonlight nights, but never knew half how glorious they
were till now. Last evening, Clarendon said, it was too ridiculous for
him to be going to bed when it was so beautiful; so he called to me to
take a stroll with him on a cliff, not far from the house, which
commands a magnificent prospect of the sea. I snatched up my cap in a
moment, delighted at the proposition, and ran along at his side, as I
always have to do, to keep up with his long, fast strides.
Even brother's melancholy countenance grew animated as he gazed on the
scene before us. A bright sheet of water separated the peak on which we
were standing from another rocky ledge, connected with the main land by
a narrow strip, called Marblehead Neck, that looked like a wall
inclosing the quiet bay. Behind us lay the town, with its strange, wild
confusion of roofs and spires, and to the south we could descry Nahant
and Boston, with Cape Cod stretching out beyond them, along the
horizon. My eyes, however, did not rest on the land, but turned to the
broad ocean, which lay beyond the light-house, that stood up like a
spectre in the moonlight, and I thought I could spy here and there a
sail among the many which I had seen that afternoon scattered over the
waves.
Clarendon sat down on one of the rocks, and his love of the beautiful
overcame, at that moment, his dislike to praising any thing in which he
has no personal interest.
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