The cliff at Newport--the long winding path that follows it from the great beach to the point of the island, always just above the sea, hardly once descending to it, as the evenly-gravelled path, too narrow for three, though far too broad for two, winds by easy curves through the grounds, and skirts the lawns of the million-getters who have their tents and their houses therein--it is a pretty place.

There the rich men come and seethe in their gold all summer; and Lazarus comes to see whether he cannot marry Dives's daughter.

And the choleric architect, dissatisfied with the face of Nature, strikes her many a dread blow, and produces an unhealthy eruption wherever he strikes, and calls the things he makes houses.

Here also, on Sunday afternoon, young gentlemen and younger ladies patrol in pairs, and discourse of the most saccharine inanities, not knowing what they shall say, and taking no thought, for obvious reasons.

And gardeners sally forth in the morning and trim the paths with strange-looking instruments--the earth-barbers, who lather and shave and clip Nature into patterns, and the world into a quincunx.
It is a pretty place.