The population here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads:
they stretch out east, west, north, and south -- white, broad, lonely;
they are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows deep and wild to their very verge.
Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and I wish no eye to see me now:
strangers would wonder what I am doing, lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost.
I might be questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible and excite suspicion.
Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment -- not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are
none that saw me would have a kind thought or a good wish for me.
I have no relative but the universal mother, Nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose.
I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw deeply furrowing the brown moorside;
I waded knee-deep in its dark growth; I turned with its turnings,
and finding a moss-blackened granite crag in a hidden angle, I sat down under it.
High banks of moor were about me; the crag protected my head: the sky was over that.