nt a
recurrence of that chaotic and intolerable despair, that had succeeded to
the miserable shipwreck, that had consummated every fear, and dashed to
annihilation every joy.

I rose each day with the morning sun, and left my desolate inn. As my feet
strayed through the unpeopled country, my thoughts rambled through the
universe, and I was least miserable when I could, absorbed in reverie,
forget the passage of the hours. Each evening, in spite of weariness, I
detested to enter any dwelling, there to take up my nightly abode--I have
sat, hour after hour, at the door of the cottage I had selected, unable to
lift the latch, and meet face to face blank desertion within. Many nights,
though autumnal mists were spread around, I passed under an ilex--many
times I have supped on arbutus berries and chestnuts, making a fire,
gypsy-like, on the ground--because wild natural scenery reminded me less
acutely of my hopeless state of loneliness. I counted the days, and bore
with me a peeled willow-wand, on which, as well as I could remember, I had
notched the days that had elapsed since my wreck, and each night I added
another unit to the melancholy sum.

I had toiled up a hill which led to Spoleto. Around was spread a plain,
encircled by the chestnut-covered Appennines. A dark ravine was on one
side, spanned by an aqueduct, whose tall arches were rooted in the dell
below, and attested that man had once deigned to bestow labour and thought
here, to adorn and civilize nature. Savage, ungrateful nature, which in
wild sport defaced his remains, protruding her easily renewed, and fragile
growth of wild flowers and parasite plants around his eternal edifices. I
sat on a fragment of rock, and looked round. The sun had bathed in gold the
western atmosphere, and in the east the clouds caught the radiance, and
budded into transient loveliness. It set on a world that contained me alone
for its inhabitant. I took out my wand--I counted the marks. Twenty-five
were already traced--twenty-five days had already elapsed, since human
voice had gladdened my ears, or human countenance met my gaze. Twenty-five
long, weary days, succeeded by dark and lonesome nights, had mingled with
foregone years, and had become a part of the past--the never to be
recalled--a real, undeniable portion of my life--twenty-five long, long
days.

Why this was not a month!--Why talk of days--or weeks--or months--I
must grasp years in my imagination, if I would truly pictur