mountains by an army of Titans: right and
left, immense virgin forests, full of those subdued and distant
harmonies which are, as it were, the voices of Silence; before me, a
prospect of twenty leagues, marvellously enhanced by the extreme
transparency of the air; above, the azure of the sky; beneath, the
creviced sides of the mountain sweeping down to the plain; afar, the
waving savannas; beyond them, a grayish speck (the distant city); and
encompassing them all, the immensity of the ocean, closing the horizon
with its deep blue line. Behind me was a rock on which a torrent of
melted snow dashes its white foam, and there, diverted from its course,
rushes with a mad leap and plunges headlong into the gulf that yawns
beneath my window.

Amid such scenes I composed "Reponds-moi la Marche des Gibaros,"
"Polonia," "Columbia," "Pastorella e Cavaliere," "Jeunesse," and many
other unpublished works. I allowed my fingers to run over the keys,
wrapped up in the contemplation of these wonders, while my poor friend,
whom I heeded but little, revealed to me, with a childish loquacity, the
lofty destiny he held in reserve for humanity. Can you conceive the
contrast produced by this shattered intellect, expressing at random its
disjointed thoughts, as a disordered clock strikes by chance any hour,
and the majestic serenity of the scene around me? I felt it
instinctively. My misanthropy gave way; I became indulgent towards
myself and mankind, and the wounds of my heart closed once more. My
despair was soothed, and soon the sun of the tropics, which tinges all
things with gold, dreams as well as fruits, restored me with new
confidence and vigor to my wanderings.

I relapsed into the life and manners of these primitive countries; if
not strictly virtuous, they are, at all events, terribly attractive.
Existence in a tropical wilderness, in the midst of a voluptuous and
half-civilized race, bears no resemblance to that of a London cockney, a
Parisian lounger, or an American Quaker. Times there were, indeed, when
a voice was heard within me that spoke of nobler aims. It reminded me of
what I once was, of what I yet might be, and commanded imperatively a
return to a healthier and more active life. But I had allowed myself to
be enervated by this baneful languor, this insidious _far niente_, and
my moral torpor was such that the mere thought of reappearing before a
polished audience struck me as superlatively absurd. "Where was the
object