has been witness of the dreadful struggles of a soul enchained by dark
deep passions which were its hell & yet from which it could not
escape--Are there in the peaceful language used by the inhabitants of
these regions--words burning enough to paint the tortures of the human
heart--Can you understand them? or can you in any way sympathize with
them--alas though dead I do and my tears flow as when I lived when my
memory recalls the dreadful images of the past--

--As the lovely girl spoke my own eyes filled with bitter drops--the
spirit of Fantasia seemed to fade from within me and when after
placing my hand before my swimming eyes I withdrew it again I found
myself under the trees on the banks of the Tiber--The sun was just
setting & tinging with crimson the clouds that floated over St.
Peters--all was still no human voice was heard--the very air was quiet
I rose--& bewildered with the grief that I felt within me the
recollection of what I had heard--I hastened to the city that I might
see human beings not that I might forget my wandering recollections
but that I might impress on my mind what was reality & what was either
dream--or at least not of this earth--The Corso of Rome was filled
with carriages and as I walked up the Trinita dei' Montes I became
disgusted with the crowd that I saw about me & the vacancy & want of
beauty not to say deformity of the many beings who meaninglessly
buzzed about me--I hastened to my room which overlooked the whole city
which as night came on became tranquil--Silent lovely Rome I now gaze
on thee--thy domes are illuminated by the moon--and the ghosts of
lovely memories float with the night breeze among thy ruins--
contemplating thy loveliness which half soothes my miserable heart I
record what I have seen--Tomorrow I will again woo Fantasia to lead me
to the same walks & invite her to visit me with her visions which I
before neglected--Oh let me learn this lesson while yet it may be
useful to me that to a mind hopeless & unhappy as mine--a moment of
forgetfullness a moment [in] which it can pass out of itself is worth
a life of painful recollection.

CHAP. 2

The next morning while sitting on the steps of the temple of
Aesculapius in the Borghese gardens Fantasia again visited me &
smilingly beckoned to me to follow her--My flight was at first heavy
but the breezes commanded by the spirit to convoy me grew stronger as
I advanced--a pleasing languour seized my senses & when I