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* This passage, which is cited as an almost literal translation from the original, I found in a small volume entitled 'Circumnavigation of the Globe, in which volume are several extracts from 'Dalrymple's Historical Collections'. The last-mentioned work I have never seen, but it is said to contain a very correct English version of great part of the learned Doctor Christoval Suaverde da Figueroa's History of Mendanna's Voyage, published at Madrid, A.D. 1613.
At each of the last words there had been a desperate sob; and as she was still crouching in the middle of the room, looking up into Dalrymple's face while he stood over her, the scene was one which had much in it that transcended the doings of everyday life, much that would be ever memorable, and much, I have no doubt, that was thoroughly enjoyed by the principal actor.
"No," said I, half blushing at the eagerness of the inquiry; "I've been spending the evening with a friend." "Spending the evening! Say, rather, the night! Why, confound you, man, what is there in Cork to keep you out of bed till near three?" "Well, if you must know, I have been supping at a Major Dalrymple's, a devilish good fellow, with two such daughters!"
I should not wish to be indiscreet, but I might almost take you for a man in love, if I did not know you better. Were you ever in love, Griggs?" "Yes," answered Griggs, quietly. "And you, Dalrymple? Were you never in love?" Dalrymple's loosely hung shoulders started suddenly, and his pale blue eyes set themselves steadily to look at Griggs.
Lady Dalrymple's carriage, for which Miss Elliot was growing very impatient, now drew up; the servant came in to announce it. It was beginning to rain again, and altogether there was a delay, and a bustle, and a talking, which must make all the little crowd in the shop understand that Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss Elliot.
Her lips were almost colourless, and her mouth had grown ten years older. Reanda was dying, and she knew it, and with him the light was going out of her life, as it had gone out long ago from Dalrymple's, as it had gone out of the life of Paul Griggs.
It was the peculiar merit of his pictures, so at least said the art-loving world, that though the likeness was always good, the stiffness of the modern portrait was never there. There was also ever some story told in Dalrymple's pictures over and above the story of the portraiture. This countess was drawn as a fairy with wings, that countess as a goddess with a helmet.
Sora Nanna sat on Dalrymple's right, industriously knitting in Italian fashion, one of the needles stuck into and supported by a wooden sheath thrust into her waist-band, while she worked off the stitches with the others. Annetta sat opposite the Scotchman, but a little on one side of the lamp, so that she could see his face.
The chief reason for our commander's touching at the Marquesas Islands, was to fix their situation; that being the only circumstance in which the nautical account of them, given in Mr. Dalrymple's collection, is deficient. It was farther desirable to settle this point, as it would lead to a more accurate knowledge of Mendana's other discoveries.
Betty Dalrymple's manner at the Russian woman's words indicated that the latter had how Mr. Heatherbloom could not imagine hit upon a great kernel of truth. Again, in fancy, he saw on her cheek that swift flush of warm blood. Lucky, thrice lucky, the man who had caused it! Softly Mr. Heatherbloom moved nearer. Was she sleeping? He, himself, felt too fagged to sleep.
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