The Argosy — page 304: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

283 A DRIVE TO THE LAND’S END. By the Author of ** A NIGHT IN A MONASTERY.” N Y old and very dear friend Z, one of the great men of Cornwall, had drawn from me—without much difficulty it must be con- fessed—a promise to spend a month with him in his delightful neigh- bourhood. There were lions in the western land : luxuriant vegetation ; an unrivalled sea; a beautiful and rocky coast; the Sciliy Islands ; the peculiar traits of the Cornish race, who of themselves form a study. At the beginning of June, before the weather set in too fiercely hot (it was hot enough in truth), I went down. There were two ways of reaching Falmouth— by land and by water. Each had its attractions. Two or three days at sea, though nothing more than going ‘‘ down channel,” must be bracing to nerves jarred with work, heat, and the wear and tear of London life. This was strong argument in favour of the water, provided fair weather could be insured. But what of the contrary ? By land there were pastoral charms: the delight of getting rapidly over the ground ; of reaching Falmouth 1n less than ten hours. There would also be the melancholy happiness of a glimpse at old and well loved spots unseen for many a long day ; unseen, in fact, since those youthful days when the world seemed full of fair promises and brilliant hopes; days which each of us has but once in his lifetime; when work, care, thought, responsibility, exist not ; when life is one stream of unbroken melody played to harmony wherein may be the sweetest modulations but no discord. A passing glance at some of these old sign-posts of ‘‘ a day that was dead,” would possess a peculiar pleasure, though mixed, as most pleasures are, with pain: awakening old memories, past friendships, buried hopes, dead loves. To add to these inducements, in the midst of doubt and indecision, entered a friend. The day of my departure was, as chance would have it, the day of his also: on the very same line, by the very same train. He was giving himself two or three months’ holiday. We might travel together as far as Bristol. The scale was turning. On Monday night A crossed over from Ostend amidst torrents of rain ; one of the heaviest seas running on record ; the wind blowing great guns; driving the boat into Dover an hour before her time: a feat never before accomplished. ‘This was bad news. ‘The scale turned. In favour of land, and the Flying Dutchman, which starts daily from Paddington at 11.45. On Wednesday morning, at 11.20, I reached the Great Western COnniclooolkKks (©) an