THE MOUNTAIN INN.
‘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.”
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—To tell you the truth, I had a particular reason
for trying the effect of absence from a part of that party.
_Mr. Chainmail_.—I surmised as much: at the same time, the unusual
melancholy of an in general most vivacious young lady made me wonder at
your having acted so precipitately. The lady’s heart is yours, if there
be truth in signs.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—Hearts are not now what they were in the days of
the old song: “Will love be controlled by advice?”
_Mr. Chainmail_.—Very true; hearts, heads, and arms have all degenerated,
most sadly. We can no more feel the high impassioned love of the ages,
which some people have the impudence to call dark, than we can wield King
Richard’s battleaxe, bend Robin Hood’s bow, or flourish the oaken graft
of the Pindar of Wakefield. Still we have our tastes and feelings,
though they deserve not the name of passions; and some of us may pluck up
spirit to try to carry a point, when we reflect that we have to contend
with men no better than ourselves.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—We do not now break lances for ladies.
_Mr. Chainmail_.—No; nor even bulrushes. We jingle purses for them,
flourish paper-money banners, and tilt with scrolls of parchment.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—In which sort of tilting I have been thrown from
the saddle. I presume it was not love that led you from the flotilla?
_Mr. Chainmail_.—By no means. I was tempted by the sight of an old
tower, not to leave this land of ruined castles, without having collected
a few hints for the adornment of my baronial hall.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—I understand you live _en famille_ with your
domestics. You will have more difficulty in finding a lady who would
adopt your fashion of living, than one who would prefer you to a richer
man.
_Mr. Chainmail_.—Very true. I have tried the experiment on several as
guests; but once was enough for them: so, I suppose, I shall die a
bachelor.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—I see, like some others of my friends, you will
give up anything except your hobby.
_Mr. Chainmail_.—I will give up anything but my baronial hall.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—You will never find a wife for your purpose, unless
in the daughter of some old-fashioned farmer.
_Mr. Chainmail_.—No, I thank you. I must have a lady of gentle blood; I
shall not marry below my own condition: I am too much of a herald; I have
too much of the twelfth century in me for that.
_Captain Fitzchrome_.—Why, then your chance is not much better than mine.
A well-born beauty would scarcely be better pleased with your baronial
hall than with my more humble offer of love in a cottage. She must have
a town-house, and an opera-box, and roll about the streets in a carriage;
especially if her father has a rotten borough, for the sake of which he
sells his daughter, that he may continue to sell his country. But you
were inquiring for a guide to the ruined castle in this vicinity; I know
the way and will conduct you.
The proposal pleased Mr. Chainmail, and they set forth on their
expedition.