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Shakespeare, you will recollect that this was the little
western flower tinged by love’s dart, which “maidens
call love in idleness.” The gaiety of my babe was unmixed;
regardless of omens or sentiments, she found a
few wild strawberries more grateful than flowers or
fancies.
The lieutenant informed me that this was a
commodious bay. Of that I could not judge, though I
felt its picturesque beauty. Rocks were piled on
rocks, forming a suitable bulwark to the ocean.
“Come no further,” they emphatically said, turning
their dark sides to the waves to augment the
idle roar. The view was sterile; still little patches
of earth of the most exquisite verdure, enamelled with
the sweetest wild flowers, seemed to promise the goats
and a few straggling cows luxurious herbage. How
silent and peaceful was the scene! I gazed around with
rapture, and felt more of that spontaneous pleasure
which gives credibility to our expectation of happiness
than I had for a long, long time before. I forgot the
horrors I had witnessed in France, which had cast a
gloom over all nature, and suffering the enthusiasm of
my character—too often, gracious God! damped by the
tears of disappointed affection—to be lighted up afresh,
care took wing while simple fellow-feeling expanded
my heart.
To prolong this enjoyment, I readily assented to the
proposal of our host to pay a visit to a family, the
master of which spoke English, who was the drollest
dog in the country, he added, repeating some of his
stories with a hearty laugh.
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