“Ellen, my darling,
Who liest in the churchyard of Walton,”
says poor Gronwy in one of the most affecting elegies ever written.
After a little farther conversation I bade the family farewell and left the house. After going down the road a hundred yards I turned back in order to ask permission to gather a leaf from one of the sycamores. Seeing the man who had helped me in my conversation with the old woman standing at the gate, I told him what I wanted, whereupon he instantly tore down a handful of leaves and gave them to me—thrusting them into my coat-pocket I thanked him kindly and departed.
Coming to the half-erected house, I again saw the man to whom I had addressed myself for information. I stopped, and speaking Spanish to him, asked how he had acquired the Spanish language.
“I have been in Chili, sir,” said he in the same tongue, “and in California, and in those places I learned Spanish.”
“What did you go to Chili for?” said I; “I need not ask you on what account you went to California.”
“I went there as a mariner,” said the man; “I sailed out of Liverpool for Chili.”
“And how is it,” said I, “that being a mariner and sailing in a Liverpool ship you do not speak English?”
“I speak English, señor,” said the man, “perfectly well.”
“Then how in the name of wonder,” said I, speaking English, “came you to answer me in Spanish? I am an Englishman thorough bred.”