I wish I could linger and describe with amorous precision the bright talk, the glories of the day, each bend and vista of the river which I have loved from childhood; but amid the stress of events now crowding with epic vehemence on Troy, the Muse must hasten.

Fain would she dally over the disembarkation, the feast, the manner in which Admiral Buzza carved the chicken-pie, and his humorous allusion to the merry thought; or dwell upon the salad compounded by Mr.Moggridge, the spider that was found in it, and the conundrum composed upon that singular occurrence; or loiter to tell how Miss Lavinia upset the claret cup over the Vicar's coat-tails, and, in her confusion, said it "did not signify," which was very amusing.

On this, and more, would she blithely discourse, did not sterner themes invite her.
It happened that on this particular morning Mr.Fogo had been restless beyond his wont.

For a full hour he had wandered on the beach, as Caleb expressed it, "Back'ards an' forrards, like Boscas'le Fair." He had taken up mallet and chisel; had set them down at the end of half an hour for his paintbox, and ruined a well-meaning sketch of the previous day; had deserted this in turn for another ramble on the beach, and finally returned, with a helpless look, to Caleb, who sat whistling and splicing a rope upon the little quay.
"Hurried in mind, sir, like Pomeroy's cat," suggested he sympathetically.
"I have no acquaintance with the animal you mention," said his master.
"I reckon 'twas she as got killed by care, sir.

I niver knawed mysel' but wan animal as got downright put-goin' i' that way, an' that were a hen." "A hen ?" "Iss, sir.