III.
THE CASTLE OF THE ISLAND OF FOGO.
The travler who pesews his dalitefle coarse through the fair rellum of
Franse (as a great romantic landskippist and neamsack of mind would say)
never chaumed his i's within a site more lovely, or vu'd a pallis more
magniffiznt than that which was the buthplace of the Eroing of this Trew
Tale. Phansy a country through whose werdant planes the selvery Garonne
wines, like--like a benevvolent sarpent. In its plasid busum antient
cassles, picturask willidges, and waving woods are reflected. Purple
hills, crownd with inteak ruings; rivvilets babbling through gentle
greenwoods; wight farm ouses, hevvy with hoverhanging vines, and from
which the appy and peaseful okupier can cast his glans over goolden
waving cornfealds, and M. Herald meddows in which the lazy cattle are
graysinn; while the sheppard, tending his snoughy flox, wiles away the
leisure mominx on his loot--these hoffer but a phaint pictur of the
rurial felissaty in the midst of widge Crinoline and Hesteria de
Viddlers were bawn.
Their Par, the Marcus de Viddlers, Shavilear of the Legend of Honor and
of the Lion of Bulgum, the Golden Flease, Grand Cross of the Eflant and
Castle, and of the Catinbagpipes of Hostria, Grand Chamberleng of
the Crownd, and Major-Genaril of Hoss-Mareens, &c.
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