“Why, all delights are vain, but
that most vain,
Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit
pain:
As painfully to pore upon
a book
To seek the light
of truth, while truth, the while,
Doth falsely blind the eyesight
of his look.”
Shakespeare.
On one of the afternoons which afforded to the students
a relaxation from their usual labors, Ellen was attended
by her cavalier in a little excursion over the rough
bridle-roads that led from her new residence.
She was an experienced equestrian,—a necessary
accomplishment at that period, when vehicles of every
kind were rare. It was now the latter end of
spring; but the season had hitherto been backward,
with only a few warm and pleasant days. The present
afternoon, however, was a delicious mingling of spring
and summer, forming in their union an atmosphere so
mild and pure, that to breathe was almost a positive
happiness. There was a little alternation of
cloud across the brow of heaven, but only so much
as to render the sunshine more delightful.
The path of the young travellers lay sometimes among
tall and thick standing trees, and sometimes over
naked and desolate hills, whence man had taken the
natural vegetation, and then left the soil to its
barrenness. Indeed, there is little inducement
to a cultivator to labor among the huge stones which
there peep forth from the earth, seeming to form a
continued ledge for several miles. A singular
contrast to this unfavored tract of country is seen
in the narrow but luxuriant, though sometimes swampy,
strip of interval, on both sides of the stream, that,
as has been noticed, flows down the valley. The
light and buoyant spirits of Edward Walcott and Ellen
rose higher as they rode on; and their way was enlivened,
wherever its roughness did not forbid, by their conversation
and pleasant laughter. But at length Ellen drew
her bridle, as they emerged from a thick portion of
the forest, just at the foot of a steep hill.
“We must have ridden far,” she observed,—“farther
than I thought. It will be near sunset before
we can reach home.”
“There are still several hours of daylight,”
replied Edward Walcott; “and we will not turn
back without ascending this hill. The prospect
from the summit is beautiful, and will be particularly
so now, in this rich sunlight. Come, Ellen,—one
light touch of the whip,—your pony is as
fresh as when we started.”
On reaching the summit of the hill, and looking back
in the direction in which they had come, they could
see the little stream, peeping forth many times to
the daylight, and then shrinking back into the shade.
Farther on, it became broad and deep, though rendered
incapable of navigation, in this part of its course,
by the occasional interruption of rapids.
“There are hidden wonders of rock and precipice
and cave, in that dark forest,” said Edward,
pointing to the space between them and the river.
“If it were earlier in the day, I should love
to lead you there. Shall we try the adventure
now, Ellen?”
