The Argosy — page 306: what you’re looking at

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

A Drive to the Land’s End. 285 “ Horribly careless!” I muttered. ‘‘ You deserve to be robbed right and left. By-the-by, what’s that bulky-looking article sticking out of your pocket?” Out came the cheque-book. A flush of shame, carnation-tinted, suffused my friend’s countenance, clouding for a moment its bland and open expression. “Man! man!” I cried, apostrophizing the roof of the carriage, shaking my head more wisely than a Solon: “thou art full of in- ventions! But,” I added, coming back to earth and plain language, “this will enable you to proceed comfortably on your journey. No need to trouble the next station.” And with a sigh, with a groan and a glare of baffled revenge, my friend reinstated his cheque-book in its resting-place. The morning was very glorious. The blue sky, flecked with high, white, ethereal-looking clouds, threw lhghts and shadows upon the landscape, appealing to the imagination, and making all things beautiful. Maule after mile was a succession of quiet, charming pro- spect : it was impossible to avoid coming to the conclusion: all, no doubt, have come to it often: that very little scenery of its kind in the world will outrival our own English hills and valleys: none can be more beautiful to dwell amidst; none will so perfectly yield a feeling of home and rest. For a season the grand, cloud, snow-capped Alps, the wild and rugged pictures of northern Europe, the roaring torrents and giant and luxuriant vegetation of America, may be, and are doubtless, heart-stirring and emotional, awakening in the mind the pleasures of astonishment and sublimity, and in some cases, inspiration. — ‘These are wonderful for a time ; there is perhaps scarcely a feeling in the world equal to the emotions they arouse in the soul: but to live in and amongst, year after year, the Englishman comes back with a sigh of relief, to his own quiet vales and rivers, his own hills and hamlets, and feels that here indeed is Home. Between Bath and Bristol the scenery was as varied and beautiful as perhaps anywhere on the road, with its nooks and corners shady with overhanging trees, with stretches of green pasture and glimpses of calm waters kissed by the melancholy willow. My friend: whose soul was occupied with conflicting emotions ; refusing to be charmed by the beautiful, as he realized more and more how thoroughly he had been defeated and overthrown: seized upon this particular opportunity to close his eyes in sleep: sleep so profound that I had much trouble in arousing him at Bristol: where, with regret on both sides, and a slight feeling of suspicion on mine, we parted. At four o’clock we reached Exeter. Two hundred and fifty miles in four. hours and a quarter, including stoppages ! Ten minutes’ breathing time, and we were off again. How beautiful and singular was the journey in parts between Exeter and Plymouth! On one hand the CoOnniclooolkKks (S©@) mM