I found in one of my rambles up the hills a real hermit, living in a
lonesome spot, hard to get at, rocky, the view fine, with a little patch
of land two rods square. A man of youngish middle age, city born and
raised, had been to school, had travel'd in Europe and California. I
first met him once or twice on the road, and pass'd the time of day,
with some small talk; then, the third time, he ask'd me to go along a
bit and rest in his hut (an almost unprecedented compliment, as I heard
from others afterwards.) He was of Quaker stock, I think; talk'd with
ease and moderate freedom, but did not unbosom his life, or story, or
tragedy, or whatever it was.