“P.S.—Tell Mr. Robthetill I will write to him in a day or two. This is the little song I spoke of:
“Beyond the sea, beyond the sea, My heart is gone, far, far from me; And ever on its track will flee My thoughts, my dreams, beyond the sea.
“Beyond the sea, beyond the sea, The swallow wanders fast and free; Oh, happy bird! were I like thee, I, too, would fly beyond the sea.
“Beyond the sea, beyond the sea, Are kindly hearts and social glee: But here for me they may not be; My heart is gone beyond the sea.”
‘Ως ἡδὺ τῴ μισοῦτι τοὺς φαύλους πρόπους ’Ερημία.
How sweet to minds that love not sordid ways Is solitude!—MENANDER.
THE Captain wandered despondingly up and down hill for several days, passing many hours of each in sitting on rocks; making, almost mechanically, sketches of waterfalls, and mountain pools; taking care, nevertheless, to be always before nightfall in a comfortable inn, where, being a temperate man, he whiled away the evening with making a bottle of sherry into negus. His rambles brought him at length into the interior of Merionethshire, the land of all that is beautiful in nature, and all that is lovely in woman.
Here, in a secluded village, he found a little inn, of small pretension and much comfort. He felt so satisfied with his quarters, and discovered every day so much variety in the scenes of the surrounding mountains, that his inclination to proceed farther diminished progressively.
It is one thing to follow the high road through a country, with every principally remarkable object carefully noted down in a book, taking, as therein directed, a guide, at particular points, to the more recondite sights: it is another to sit down on one chosen spot, especially when the choice is unpremeditated, and from thence, by a series of explorations, to come day by day on unanticipated scenes. The latter process has many advantages over the former; it is free from the disappointment which attends excited expectation, when imagination has outstripped reality, and from the accidents that mar the scheme of the tourist’s single day, when the valleys may be drenched with rain, or the mountains shrouded with mist.
The Captain was one morning preparing to sally forth on his usual exploration, when he heard a voice without, inquiring for a guide to the ruined castle. The voice seemed familiar to him, and going forth into the gateway, he recognised Mr. Chainmail. After greetings and inquiries for the absent: “You vanished very abruptly, Captain,” said Mr. Chainmail, “from our party on the canal.”