The Delectable Duchy | Page 2

it to build in
for three successive years? The violets are gone. The empty nest has
almost dissolved under the late heavy rains, and the yew is so like its
fellows that I myself have no idea why the birds chose it. The longer I
reflected the more certain I felt that my friend could find all he wanted
in the guide-books.
None the less, I did my best: rowed him for a mile or two up the river;
took him out to sea, and along the coast for half a dozen miles. The
water was choppy, as it is under the slightest breeze from the south-east;
and the Journalist was sea-sick; but seemed to mind this very little, and
recovered sufficiently to ask my boatman two or three hundred
questions before we reached the harbour again. Then we landed and
explored the Church. This took us some time, owing to several freaks
in its construction, for which I blessed the memory of its early-English
builders. We went on to the Town Hall, the old Stannary Prison (now
in ruins), the dilapidated Block-houses, the Battery. We traversed the
town from end to end and studied the barge-boards and punkin-ends of
every old house. I had meanly ordered that dinner should he ready
half-an-hour earlier than usual, and, as it was, the objects of interest just
lasted out.
As we sat and smoked our cigarettes after dinner, the Journalist said--
"If you don't mind, I'll he off in a few minutes and shut myself up in
your study. I won't he long turning out the copy; and after that I can

talk to you without feeling I've neglected my work. There's an early
post here, I suppose?"
"Man alive!" said I, "you don't mean to tell me that you're working, this
holiday?"
"Only a letter for the 'Daily ----' three times a week--a column and a
half, or so."
"The subject?"
"Oh, descriptive stuff about the places I've been visiting. I call it 'An
Idler in Lyonesse.'"
"Why Lyonesse?"
"Why not?"
"Well, Lyonesse has lain at the bottom of the Atlantic, between Land's
End and Scilly, these eight hundred years. The chroniclers relate that it
was overwhelmed and lost in 1099, A.D. If your Constant Readers care
to ramble there, they're welcome, I'm sure."
"I had thought" said he, "it was just a poet's name for Cornwall. Well,
never mind, I'll go in presently and write up this place: it's just as well
to do it while one's impressions are still fresh."
He finished his coffee, lit a fresh cigarette, and strolled off to the little
library where I usually work. I stepped out upon the verandah and
looked down on the harbour at my feet, where already the vessels were
hanging out their lamps in the twilight. I had looked down thus, and at
this hour, a thousand times; and always the scene had something new to
reveal to me, and much more to withhold--small subtleties such as a
man finds in his wife, however ordinary she may appear to other people.
And here, in the next room, was a man who, in half-a-dozen hours, felt
able to describe Troy, to deck her out, at least, in language that should
captivate a million or so of breakfasting Britons.

"My country," said I, "if you have given up, in these six hours, a tithe
of your heart to this man--if, in fact, his screed be not arrant bosh--then
will I hie me to London for good and all, and write political leaders all
the days of my life."
In an hour's time the Journalist came sauntering out to me, and
announced that his letter was written.
"Have you sealed it up?"
"Well, no. I thought you might give me an additional hint or two; and
maybe I might look it over again and add a few lines before turning in."
"Do you mind my seeing it?"
"Not the least in the world, if you care to. I didn't think, though, that it
could possibly interest you, who know already every mortal thing that
is to be known about the place."
"You're mistaken. I may know all about this place when I die, but not
before. Let's hear what you have to say."
We went indoors, and he read it over to me.
It was a surprisingly brilliant piece of description; and accurate, too. He
had not called it "a little fishing-town," for instance, as so many visitors
have done in my hearing, though hardly a fishing-boat puts out from
the harbour. The guide-books call it a fishing-town, but the Journalist
was not misled, though he had gone to them for a number of facts. I
corrected a date and then sat silent. It amazed me that a man who could
see so much,