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that I did was I satisfied, and in everything I attempted, found my limits fixed. Neither was I ambitious of false praise. Fond enough of praise, unless I felt I had done the thing well it was no good to me; and though I still wrote poetry to please my father, was by this time perfectly conscious that I had small power that way. For political action or distinction I had neither faculty nor ambition-for the Church I every day felt myself less fit-and my scientific instincts had been stamped out, partly by the classic work at Oxford, and partly because I was never allowed to climb hills by myself, nor to load the carriage with specimens. For the last year also, I had been more or less in a state of disgust with life and yet fear of death-both ignoble and both paralyzing. Fate had at last brought the time for me to shake off these.

[Then as in ii. § 59 (p. 299): “We reached Rochester ...”]

A RIDE IN WALES: 1841

[This passage in the MS. follows on end of ii. § 59 (p. 300).]

I wanted to see the same hills by the same road that we had taken that happy day from Hereford¹-to Hereford we went and posted half the way to Rhaiadyr.

But the hills I remembered had vanished completely, as if they had melted into air. It is the only instance in which the impression received from greater things has entirely subdued the smaller ones so as to make the memory seem treacherous to me. In every other case-I write every again and italicize, for I recollect no single exception-my early impressions have been invincible by later ones, however grand. Matlock is still Matlock to me, soar the cliffs of Lauterbrunnen never so high; Skiddaw still Skiddaw, however well I love Mont Blanc. This once only I found my imagination had been deceived by the eager rapture.

We stopped at Rhaiadyr, however, not discontented. Though the hills were low they were more than I could climb, and in some freak of obeying for once the oft-repeated prescription of horse exercise (meaning now to do all I could to get well), I inquired if there was any such thing as a Welsh pony in the stable.

Pony there was not, but a white horse twenty years old, and blind of one eye. This seemed to me exactly the sort of steed I could with comfort and credit bestride. I ordered him to be saddled, got up (I believe on the right side), and moved through the village with serene dignity at a walking pace. When we got out of the village the old horse did not think it necessary to quicken his pace,-neither did I see any reason why he should. Content with each other, we walked on for half a mile on a narrow road carried round a green hill side. It seemed to me that we might as well walk on the grass. My horse-the bridle being slightly bent that way-thought so too. Then I thought perhaps he would not mind going up the hill a little: and being asked, he did not

¹ [See above, p. 95.]

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