"I used rather to like Solitude--to fancy her a somewhat quiet and serious, yet fair nymph; an Oread, descending to me from lone mountain-passes, something of the blue mist of hills in her array and of their chill breeze in her breath, but much also of their solemn beauty in her mien. I once could court her serenely, and imagine my heart easier when I held her to it--all mute, but majestic.
"Since that day I called S. to me in the schoolroom, and she came and sat so near my side; since she opened the trouble of her mind to me, asked my protection, appealed to my strength--since that hour I abhor Solitude. Cold abstraction, fleshless skeleton, daughter, mother, and mate of Death!
"It is pleasant to write about what is near and dear as the core of my heart. None can deprive me of this little book, and through this pencil I can say to it what I will--say what I dare utter to nothing living--say what I dare not _think_ aloud.

"I used rather to like Solitude. I once could court Solitude serenely, and imagine my heart easier when I found her - mute, but majestic.
"Since that day I called S. to me in the schoolroom, and she came and sat so near my side; since she opened the trouble of her mind to me, asked my protection, appealed to my strength - since that hour I abhor Solitude. Cold mate of Death!
"It is pleasant to write about her. Through this pencil I can say what I will - say what I dare not even think aloud.
