freshness. Mine had been checked and chilled. They now burst forth with
the suddenness of a retarded spring. My heart, hitherto unnaturally
shrunk up, expanded into a riot of vague, but delicious emotions. The
beauty of nature intoxicated, bewildered me. The song of the peasants;
their cheerful looks; their happy avocations; the picturesque gayety of
their dresses; their rustic music; their dances; all broke upon me like
witchcraft. My soul responded to the music; my heart danced in my
bosom. All the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely.

I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body returned but my
heart and soul never entered there again. I could not forget this
glimpse of a beautiful and a happy world; a world so suited to my
natural character. I had felt so happy while in it; so different a
being from what I felt myself while in the convent--that tomb of the
living. I contrasted the countenances of the beings I had seen, full of
fire and freshness and enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lack-lustre
visages of the monks; the music of the dance, with the droning chant of
the chapel. I had before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome;
they now became intolerable. The dull round of duties wore away my
spirit; my nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling of the
convent bell; evermore dinging among the mountain echoes; evermore
calling me from my repose at night, my pencil by day, to attend to some
tedious and mechanical ceremony of devotion.

I was not of a nature to meditate long, without putting my thoughts
into action. My spirit had been suddenly aroused, and was now all awake
within me. I watched my opportunity, fled from the convent, and made my
way on foot to Naples. As I entered its gay and crowded streets, and
beheld the variety and stir of life around me, the luxury of palaces,
the splendor of equipages, and the pantomimic animation of the motley