But truly there is something _par excellence_ in these old Catholic ecclesiastical buildings, which always, good Protestant as I am, takes a powerful hold on my feelings and imagination; hallowed by their association with the events of the misty past, they awaken the most solemn reflections. To have trodden, too, as we have just done, those very aisles where the adventurous Portuguese of the olden time of India (now some centuries past) have put up their orisons, is well worth our evenings ramble. Yes,” she added, with some enthusiasm, “whatever be the defects of its tenets and doctrines, Romanism unquestionably contains the very poetry of religion.” “Ann! my dear Ann!” exclaimed the captain, “what would your old friend Parson Martext, of Long Somerton, say, were he to hear you talking thus? Fie! fie! The ‘misty past,’ as you poetically term it,” continued Captain Belfield (who, I began to discover, was a matter-of-fact-man, who had curbed and double-bitted his fancy, and was not perhaps quite so orthodox as he should have been), “is too often a region of delusion, in which flying the dull realities of the present, the feelings and imagination love to revel—a sort of moral _mirage_ rests upon it. With too many, as they approach it, judgment abandons the reins of the understanding, whilst enthusiasm seizes them, and drives away Heaven knows whither. In the distant mountain fading—in aerial tints of gold and purple, infancy paints a heaven, whilst experience tells of rocks and caverns, cataracts and precipices. I am myself, I confess, disposed to entertain many of your feelings in such situations, but reading and reflection have taught me to moderate them—to distinguish, I hope, between feelings and rational convictions—romance and reality—in more senses than one; be assured the ‘heart of man is deceitful above all things.’ But, my dear Ann,” he added, “we are becoming a vast deal too solemn and didactic. I’m sure our young friend here will think so. These subjects are caviare to those just entering on the spring of life, to which we, you know, are beginning to turn our backs. Here we are at the budgerow, love! Tea, too, on table! Now, then, take care how you walk over the plank; a dip in the Hoogly would be a chilling _finale_ to your evening’s ramble. Mr. Gernon, give my sister your hand, if you please. Here we are, once more, on board our first-rate.” I was not long in discerning that Captain Belfield was a learned Theban—a great Oriental scholar; a prodigious number of books he had, too, lying about the cabin, in worm-eaten Indian covers, and in all sorts of crambo characters—Persian, Nagree, Pali, and I know not what besides; with dictionaries, many of formidable bulk.