letters arrived, followed by somebody with a list of les seigneurs
and dames as long as a Welsh pedigree. Half-an-hour was wasted in
speeches and recommendations; another passed before we could snatch a
morsel of refreshment; they then finding I was neither inclined to go
to the ball, nor enter the land where Pharaoh reigneth, peace was
restored, a few feeble bows were scraped, and I found myself in
perfect solitude. Taking advantage of this quiet moment, I stole out
of town, and followed a path cut in the rocks, which brought me to a
young wood of oaks on their summits. Luckily I met no saunterer:
the gay vagabonds, it seemed, were all at the assembly, as happy as
billiards and chit-chat could make them. It was not an evening to
tempt such folks abroad. The air was cool, and the sky lowering; a
melancholy cloud shaded the wild hills and irregular woods at a
distance. There was something so importunate in their appearance,
that I could not help asking their name, and was told they were
skirts of the forest of Ardenne, amongst whose enchanted labyrinths
the heroes of Boyardo and Ariosto roved formerly in quest of
adventures. I felt myself singularly affected whilst gazing upon a
wood so celebrated in romance for feats of the highest chivalry; and,
Don Quixote-like, would have explored its recesses in search of that
memorable fountain of hatred, which (if you recollect the story) was
raised by Merlin to free illustrious knights and damsels from the
torments of rejected love. So far was I advanced in these romantic
fancies, that, forgetting the lateness of the hour, I wandered on,
expecting to reach the fountain at every step; but at length it grew
so dusky that, unable to trace back my way amongst the thickets, in
vain I strayed through intricate copses, till the clouds began to
disperse and the moon appeared. Being so placed as to receive the
full play of silver radiance, to my no small surprise, I beheld a
precipice immediately beneath my feet. The chasm was deep and awful;