I could not see her thus lost, without exerting myself to remedy the evil —­remediless I knew, if I could not in the end bring her to reconcile herself to Raymond.  Before he went I used every argument, every persuasion to induce her to stop his journey.  She answered the one with a gush of tears—­telling me that to be persuaded—­life and the goods of life were a cheap exchange.  It was not will that she wanted, but the capacity; again and again she declared, it were as easy to enchain the sea, to put reins on the wind’s viewless courses, as for her to take truth for falsehood, deceit for honesty, heartless communion for sincere, confiding love.  She answered my reasonings more briefly, declaring with disdain, that the reason was hers; and, until I could persuade her that the past could be unacted, that maturity could go back to the cradle, and that all that was could become as though it had never been, it was useless to assure her that no real change had taken place in her fate.  And thus with stern pride she suffered him to go, though her very heart-strings cracked at the fulfilling of the act, which rent from her all that made life valuable.

To change the scene for her, and even for ourselves, all unhinged by the cloud that had come over us, I persuaded my two remaining companions that it were better that we should absent ourselves for a time from Windsor.  We visited the north of England, my native Ulswater, and lingered in scenes dear from a thousand associations.  We lengthened our tour into Scotland, that we might see Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond; thence we crossed to Ireland, and passed several weeks in the neighbourhood of Killarney.  The change of scene operated to a great degree as I expected; after a year’s absence, Perdita returned in gentler and more docile mood to Windsor.  The first sight of this place for a time unhinged her.  Here every spot was distinct with associations now grown bitter.  The forest glades, the ferny dells, and lawny uplands, the cultivated and cheerful country spread around the silver pathway of ancient Thames, all earth, air, and wave, took up one choral voice, inspired by memory, instinct with plaintive regret.

But my essay towards bringing her to a saner view of her own situation, did not end here.  Perdita was still to a great degree uneducated.  When first she left her peasant life, and resided with the elegant and cultivated Evadne, the only accomplishment she brought to any perfection was that of painting, for which she had a taste almost amounting to genius.  This had occupied her in her lonely cottage, when she quitted her Greek friend’s protection.  Her pallet and easel were now thrown aside; did she try to paint, thronging recollections made her hand tremble, her eyes fill with tears.  With this occupation she gave up almost every other; and her mind preyed upon itself almost to madness.