Hail to thee, spirit of De Foe! What does not my own poor self owe to
thee? England has better bards than either Greece or Rome, yet I could
spare them easier far than De Foe, 'unabashed De Foe,' as the hunchbacked
rhymer styled him.
* * * * *
I commenced the Bible in Spain. At first I proceeded slowly--sickness
was in the land, and the face of nature was overcast--heavy rainclouds
swam in the heavens,--the blast howled amid the pines which nearly
surround my lonely dwelling, and the waters of the lake which lies before
it, so quiet in general and tranquil, were fearfully agitated. 'Bring
lights hither, O Hayim Ben Attar, son of the miracle!' And the Jew of
Fez brought in the lights, for though it was midday I could scarcely see
in the little room where I was writing. . . .
A dreary summer and autumn passed by, and were succeeded by as gloomy a
winter. I still proceeded with the Bible in Spain. The winter passed,
and spring came with cold dry winds and occasional sunshine, whereupon I
arose, shouted, and mounting my horse, even Sidi Habismilk, I scoured all
the surrounding district, and thought but little of the Bible in Spain.
So I rode about the country, over the heaths, and through the green lanes
of my native land, occasionally visiting friends at a distance, and
sometimes, for variety's sake, I stayed at home and amused myself by
catching huge pike, which lie perdue in certain deep ponds skirted with
lofty reeds, upon my land, and to which there is a communication from the
lagoon by a deep and narrow watercourse.
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