secure, a peace more perfect, than are enjoyed by the occupant of this
rambling old house? Blessed be the earth that bears this solace for
weary brains! Its very odor is pregnant with dreams of the _Vuelta
Abajo_. You see the luxuriant foliage of the tropics, the dark-green
waves curling on the coral beach, and the scarlet flamingoes that gather
shell-fish in the marshes away off in the golden sunset. You hear the
wild song of the Spanish fruit-man as he sculls his boat along the
broken wharves, and are soothed into utter listlessness by the thousand
perfumes that come off with the land-breeze. A taste of the fragrant
vapor, you recline in the odorous orange darkness of a dream-land,
languidly breathing the smoke from your hookah, and the lustrous leaves
moving over you are bathed in the soft and melting sunshine. The day
lingers luminously over far mountain-ranges, paling in brilliancy on the
hill-side, where the blushing vine, bending with the clusters, is still
enlivened by the song of the vintagers; and in the valley, where the
grain sheds its gold under the sickle. You are lost in voluptuous
reverie. You breathe the sunlight; intellect is thawed and mellowed;
emotions take the place of thought; "your senses, sun-tranced, rise into
the sphere of soul." You feel the heart of humanity throbbing through
all nature, and your own warms into quivering life.

"It is not good for man to live alone;" and you dream of another to
share the rapture your wild fancy has created.

_Your_ Haidee is pure. Her form has rather the statuesque roundness of
Psyche than the luxurious excess of Venus. Timid, yet not tremulous,
graceful even to delicacy, coquettish in outline, _her_ beauty is formed
for smiles. She is a still-eyed Xenobi, but knows nothing of Passion
with disheveled locks, divine frenzy, and fiery grasp. She is your
friend and comforter; and you are the strong rock her helplessness