like some of those fabulous, shadowy beings which haunted the cool
grottoes on Grecian mountains; creatures that seem to have no
practical vitality--to be only a kind of voice, an echo, heard for a
little, and then lost in silence. He seemed to be in himself a kind of
elegy.

From thence we strolled along, enjoying the beautiful rural scenery.
Having had a kind invitation to visit Labouchere Park that day, which
we were obliged to decline for want of time, we were pleased to
discover that we had two more hours, in which we could easily
accomplish a stroll there. By a most singular infelicity, our party
became separated; and, misunderstanding each other, we remained
waiting for W. till it was too late for us to go, while he, on the
other hand, supposing us to have walked before him, was redoubling his
speed all the while, hoping to overtake us. In consequence of this, he
accomplished the walk to Labouchere Park, and we waited in the dismal
depot till it was too late to wait any longer, and finally went into
London without him.

After all, imagine our chagrin on being informed that we had not been
to the genuine churchyard. The gentleman who wept over the scenes of
his early days on the wrong doorstep was not more grievously
disappointed. However, he and we could both console ourselves with the
reflection that the emotion was admirable, and wanted only the right
place to make it the most appropriate in the world. The genuine
country churchyard, however, was that at Stoke Pogis, which we should
have seen had not the fates forbidden our going to Labouchere Park.