I could now fully realise all
Mrs. Bowdich's longings for English bread and butter, after her
three years' travel through the burning African deserts, with her
talented husband.
"When we arrived at the hotel at Plymouth," said she, "and were
asked what refreshment we chose - 'Tea, and home-made bread and
butter,' was my instant reply. 'Brown bread, if you please, and
plenty of it.' I never enjoyed any luxury like it. I was positively
ashamed of asking the waiter to refill the plate. After the
execrable messes, and the hard ship-biscuit, imagine the luxury of
a good slice of English bread and butter!"
At home, I laughed heartily at the lively energy with which that
charming woman of genius related this little incident in her
eventful history - but off Grosse Isle, I realised it all.
As the sun rose above the horizon, all these matter-of-fact
circumstances were gradually forgotten, and merged in the
surpassing grandeur of the scene that rose majestically before me.
The previous day had been dark and stormy, and a heavy fog had
concealed the mountain chain, which forms the stupendous background
to this sublime view, entirely from our sight. As the clouds rolled
away from their grey, bald brows, and cast into denser shadow the
vast forest belt that girdled them round, they loomed out like
mighty giants - Titans of the earth, in all their rugged and awful
beauty - a thrill of wonder and delight pervaded my mind.
