It seems to be, indeed, not a place in
which events could occur with any romantic fitness.
Perhaps I have grown to love this Little Country because I am a usual
man. Perhaps I would have felt as much for it even had I not been held
to it by a memory that would bind me to any spot howsoever unlovely. But
I rejoiced always in its beauty, and more than ever when it made easier
for me the only life it once appeared that I should live. I quote again
from our visiting poet: "The aspect of this country was to me enchanting
beyond any I have ever seen, from its fulness of expression, its bold
and impassioned sweetness. Here the flood has passed over and marked
everywhere its course by a smile. The fragments of rock touch it with a
mildness and liberality which give just the needed relief. I should
never be tired here, though I have elsewhere seen country of more secret
and alluring charms, better calculated to stimulate and suggest. Here
the eye and heart are filled."
Here, too, my eye and heart were filled--emptied--and wondrously filled
yet again, for which last I hold Potts to be curiously--but I wander.
Enough to say that I stored a harvest of memories in a secret place here
years ago.
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