and made the intervening vale of loveliness a neglected blank.  Then we emerged suddenly—­yes, instantaneously—­as though designing nature, with purpose to surprize, had hid behind the jutting crag, beneath the rugged steep—­upon a world of beauty; garden upon garden, sward upon sward, hamlet upon hamlet, far as the sight could reach, and purple shades of all beyond.  Then, flashes of the broad ocean, like quick transitory bursts of light, started at intervals, washing the feet of a tall emerald cliff, or, like a lake, buried between the hills.  Shorter and shorter become the intermissions, larger and larger grows the watery expanse, until, at length, the mighty element rolls unobstructed on, and earth, decked in her verdant leaves, her flowers and gems, is on the shore to greet her.

The entrance to the village is by a swift, precipitous descent.  On either side are piled rude stones, placed there by a subtle hand, and with a poet’s aim, to touch the fancy, and to soothe the traveller with thoughts of other times—­of ruined castles, and of old terrace walks.  Already have the stones fulfilled their purpose, and the ivy, the brier, and the saxifrage have found a home amongst them.  At the foot of the declivity, standing like a watchful mother, is the church—­the small, the unpretending, the venerable and lovely village church.  You do not see a house till she is passed.  Before a house was built about her, she was an aged church, and her favoured graves were rich in heavenly clay.  The churchyard gate; and then at once, the limited and quiet village, nestling in a valley and shut out from the world:  beautiful and self-sufficient.  Hill upon hill behind, each greener than the last—­hill upon hill before, all exclusion, and nothing but her own surpassing loveliness to console and cheer her solitude.  And is it not enough?  What if she know little of the sea beyond its voice, and nothing of external life—­her crystal stream, her myrtle-covered cottages, her garden plots, her variegated flowers and massive foliage, her shady dells and scented lanes are joys enough for her small commonwealth.  Thin curling smoke that rises like a spirit from the hidden bosom of one green hillock, proclaims the single house that has its seat upon the eminence.  It is the parsonage—­my future home.

With a trembling heart I left the little inn, and took my silent way to the incumbent’s house.  There was no eye to follow me, the leafy street was tenantless, and seemed made over to the restless sun and dissolute winds to wanton through it as they pleased.  As I ascended, the view enlarged—­beauty became more beauteous, silence more profound.  I reached the parsonage gate, and my heart yearned to tell how much I longed to live and die on this sequestered and most peaceful spot.  The dwelling-house was primitive and low; its long and overhanging roof was thatched; its windows small and many.  A myrtle, luxuriant as a vine, covered its entire front, and