After the lapse of a few weeks, we left Dunkeld.  Idris and her mother returned immediately to Windsor, while Adrian and I followed by slow journies and frequent stoppages, occasioned by his continued weakness.  As we traversed the various counties of fertile England, all wore an exhilarating appearance to my companion, who had been so long secluded by disease from the enjoyments of weather and scenery.  We passed through busy towns and cultivated plains.  The husbandmen were getting in their plenteous harvests, and the women and children, occupied by light rustic toils, formed groupes of happy, healthful persons, the very sight of whom carried cheerfulness to the heart.  One evening, quitting our inn, we strolled down a shady lane, then up a grassy slope, till we came to an eminence, that commanded an extensive view of hill and dale, meandering rivers, dark woods, and shining villages.  The sun was setting; and the clouds, straying, like new-shorn sheep, through the vast fields of sky, received the golden colour of his parting beams; the distant uplands shone out, and the busy hum of evening came, harmonized by distance, on our ear.  Adrian, who felt all the fresh spirit infused by returning health, clasped his hands in delight, and exclaimed with transport: 

“O happy earth, and happy inhabitants of earth!  A stately palace has God built for you, O man! and worthy are you of your dwelling!  Behold the verdant carpet spread at our feet, and the azure canopy above; the fields of earth which generate and nurture all things, and the track of heaven, which contains and clasps all things.  Now, at this evening hour, at the period of repose and refection, methinks all hearts breathe one hymn of love and thanksgiving, and we, like priests of old on the mountain-tops, give a voice to their sentiment.

“Assuredly a most benignant power built up the majestic fabric we inhabit, and framed the laws by which it endures.  If mere existence, and not happiness, had been the final end of our being, what need of the profuse luxuries which we enjoy?  Why should our dwelling place be so lovely, and why should the instincts of nature minister pleasurable sensations?  The very sustaining of our animal machine is made delightful; and our sustenance, the fruits of the field, is painted with transcendant hues, endued with grateful odours, and palatable to our taste.  Why should this be, if he were not good?  We need houses to protect us from the seasons, and behold the materials with which we are provided; the growth of trees with their adornment of leaves; while rocks of stone piled above the plains variegate the prospect with their pleasant irregularity.

“Nor are outward objects alone the receptacles of the Spirit of Good.  Look into the mind of man, where wisdom reigns enthroned; where imagination, the painter, sits, with his pencil dipt in hues lovelier than those of sunset, adorning familiar life with glowing tints.  What a noble boon, worthy the giver, is the imagination! it takes from reality its leaden hue:  it envelopes all thought and sensation in a radiant veil, and with an hand of beauty beckons us from the sterile seas of life, to her gardens, and bowers, and glades of bliss.  And is not love a gift of the divinity?  Love, and her child, Hope, which can bestow wealth on poverty, strength on the weak, and happiness on the sorrowing.