"And so am I," replied Burrel. "I am fond of every kind of scenery, from the bold blue mountain with its purple heath, as bare, as naked, and as wild as the banks of Loch Awe itself can show, to the rich and undulating plains of Champagne, where soft line beyond line of faint and fainter shadows, vanishing away in Claude-like sunshine, are all that marks the wide extent over which the eye can roam. There is such a thing as the economy of admiration; and by husbanding that faculty properly, you will not find a scene in all the world on which you cannot afford to bestow some small portion thereof."
The other traveller replied, not a little pleased to find that all the fine sketches which he had been making of his companion's character, during the earlier part of their journey, were as empty as a protocol; and, with the very natural jump which man's heart takes when it finds itself agreeably disappointed in the estimation it had formed of another, perhaps the stranger now felt as much inclined to over-admire his companion, as he had before been disposed to undervalue him. A growing remembrance of his features, too, for some time made him fancy that he had met with an old friend, whose face, like a worn piece of money, though half obliterated by time, was still sufficiently plain to tease memory--one of those provoking recollections, as tenacious as remorse, and intactible as a soufflet. After some farther conversation, and one or two thoughtful pauses--in which memory was so busy in digging amongst the ruins of the past to see if she could find the name of Burrel, that she would not even let the young traveller's loquacious powers go on, for fear of disturbing her search--he suddenly exclaimed, with that degree of frank simplicity which at once spoke him but little a child of the great world, "Oh! now I remember where it was; I saw you before!"
"Where?" demanded Burrel with a slight smile, which he instantly repressed lest he should give pain.
But the young stranger was not of a nature to think there could be any thing wrong or absurd in acknowledging whatever he felt, if what he felt were pure and natural. "It was at the door of Lord Ashborough, in Grosvenor Square," he replied at once. "You were coming out as I was going in to call for his lordship. It was but yesterday; and yet I have been searching through many long years to find out where it was I had seen you before."
"Memory is like the philosophers," replied Burrel, "and often sends out far to seek what she might stumble over at her own door. I now remember your face also, and think I heard you give your name as Captain Delaware."
"The same," answered his companion with somewhat of a sigh. "Do you know Lord Ashborough well?"
"I have known him long," replied Burrel; "but to know a man well is a very different thing; for I am afraid that all men have learned now-a-days what Sallust regrets in the decline of the Romans--magis vultum quam ingenium, bonum habere. Not that I mean to say it is so with Lord Ashborough;--far from it. He bears a high character in the world, and is esteemed upright, honourable, and talented, though somewhat stern and haughty."
A grave and rather melancholy expression came over the countenance of the other; and he replied, changing the subject abruptly, "You were speaking of the Dardanelles. Were you ever there?"
"Never," answered Burrel, "though once within little more than a hundred leagues. I should have been well pleased to have gone on; but circumstances called me back to England."
"I have been there," replied the other; "and there is nothing more delightful on earth than the sail from Corfu to Constantinople--except, indeed, some parts of the coast of Sicily."