“We do but row,
And we are steer’d by fate;”
in the words of our proverb, Der Mensch denkt Gott lenkt. Yes, indeed, thought I, the little philosopher is right: things always turn out differently from what one intends, even in such small events as these.
After dinner I mounted my horse again. I sought the most untracked ways in the wildest mountain country on the land side, frequently fording the rapid stream, and revelling in the most beautiful and striking scenery. Here and there I met a country girl working in the fields. They are strikingly pretty in the singular costume which sets off their fine persons to the greatest advantage. They are moreover shy as roes, and chaste as vestals. Every thing shows the mountain character; my horse among the rest:—unwearied as a machine of steel, he gallops over the stones, up hill and down; leaps with undisturbed composure over the gates which continually intercept my way across the fields, and tires me long before he feels the least fatigue himself. This, to me, is the true pleasure of riding; I love to traverse mile after mile of country which I had never seen before, where I know not whither I am going, and must find out my way back as I can.
To-day I came upon a park, in which wooden statues painted white contrasted strangely with the sublimity of nature. No human being was visible; only hundreds of rabbits put their heads out of the holes in the side of the hill, or coursed rapidly across the road. All sorts of strange and curious devices marked the proprietor as an original. The only thing that pleased me was a dark fir grove, surrounded by a belt of bright crimson mallows. I at length reached the top, a bare hill, and went out as I had come in, through a gate, which fell to of itself. The same solitude reigned throughout, and the enchanted castle was soon far behind me.
Bangor, August 8th.
I was to stay some weeks at K—— park: but you know my restlessness; uniformity, even of the good, soon wearies me. I therefore took leave of my kind friends,—made a visit of some hours, instead of days, to another country-gentleman who had invited me,—saw a sun-set from the ruins of Conway Castle,—ate a plaice, and returned to my head-quarters, which I now leave for ever. I am unfortunately not very well, my chest seems somewhat the worse for my late fatigues, and frequently gives me great pain; ‘mais n’importe.’
Craig y Don, August 9th, early.
Do you recollect this name? It is the beautiful villa which I described to you. I have since become acquainted with its amiable possesor, whose friendly invitation to spend my last night in Wales with him I could not resist. The pain in my chest prevented my taking more than short walks in the garden, with the son of my host; and the attempt to climb a hill in the neighbourhood made me so ill that I was obliged to amuse myself after dinner with reading the newspaper. In this vast desert I met with only one thing which I think worth quoting to you. The article treated of the speech from the throne, in which were the words “The Speaker is commanded to congratulate the people on their universal prosperity.” This, says the writer, is too insolent, openly to make a jest of the miseries of the people. It is indeed a settled point, that truth is never to be expected in a speech from the throne; and if ever a king were mad enough to speak the real truth on such an occasion, he must begin his speech, “My knaves and dupes,” instead of the wonted exordium “My Lords and Gentlemen.”
My host is a member of the yacht club, and a passionate lover of the sea. Our dinner would have contented the most rigid Catholic in lent: it consisted entirely of fish, admirably dressed in various ways. An oyster bank under his windows contributed its inhabitants for our dessert; the cows grazing before the house also afforded many delicacies; and the hot-houses adjoining the dining-room, delicious fruits.
Does it not do one good to think that perhaps not less than a hundred thousand persons in England are in the enjoyment of such an existence as this; of such substantial and comfortable luxury in their peaceful homes! free monarchs in the bosoms of their families, where they live in the security of their inviolable rights of property! Happy men! they are never annoyed with the oppressive missives of uncivil functionaries, who want to rule everything even in their drawing-rooms and bed-chambers, and think they have rendered the state an important service when they have put the unhappy subject to an expense of many thousand dollars in a year for unnecessary postage;—who are not contented to be placed above the governed, but must place themselves against them; thus uniting in their own persons party and judge. Happy men! free from assaults on their purses,—from personal indignities,—from the insolence of officials, eager to show their power by useless and frivolous vexations,—from the avidity of insatiable blood-suckers!—unrestrained masters of their own property, and only subject to those laws which themselves have contributed to make! When we reflect on this, we must confess that England, though not a perfect country, is a most fortunate one. We ought not, therefore, to be much offended at Englishmen if, feeling strongly the contrast between their own country and most others, they can never, whatever be their courtesy and kindness, get over the distance which separates them from foreigners. Their feeling of self-respect, which is perfectly just, is so powerful, that they involuntarily look upon us as an inferior race. Just as we, for example, in spite of all our German heartiness, should find it difficult to fraternize with a Sandwich Islander. In some centuries we shall perhaps change places; but at present, unhappily, we are a long way from that.[121]