The moor is wild and vacant enough, however, and he who loves solitude may have his fill of it, if he keeps out of a few beaten paths, like the Doone Valley. As far as he can see, nothing appears to him but the moor, swelling with the softest curves and dressed with heather, gorse and the trembling plumes of bracken; the sprinkled gold of the gorse is lost sight of in the rich flood of purple heather, but the scent of both is blown through the air by the sea wind, for the moor ends on its nothern edge in a wall of cliffs. White mountains of clouds float over him; he hears the bleating of sheep, and sees the gulls circling from the shelves of the precipice. He may have all this world to himself day after day, and thus be nursed by the wind and the clouds. Nothing will break his isolation but the bark of a collie, or, towards evening, the chatter of some fruit gatherers who are going home with baskets of blackberries and whortleberries.
The New England magazine, Volume 10

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