of sympathetic social intercourse--an even tenor of intelligent
existence which neither exhausted the mind nor injured the body.

I dwelt in my father's villa--a miniature palace of white marble,
situated on a wooded height overlooking the Bay of Naples. My
pleasure-grounds were fringed with fragrant groves of orange and
myrtle, where hundreds of full-voiced nightingales warbled their
love-melodies to the golden moon. Sparkling fountains rose and fell
in huge stone basins carved with many a quaint design, and their
cool murmurous splash refreshed the burning silence of the hottest
summer air. In this retreat I lived at peace for some happy years,
surrounded by books and pictures, and visited frequently by friends-
-young men whose tastes were more or less like my own, and who were
capable of equally appreciating the merits of an antique volume, or
the flavor of a rare vintage.

Of women I saw little or nothing. Truth to tell, I instinctively
avoided them. Parents with marriageable daughters invited me
frequently to their houses, but these invitations I generally
refused. My best books warned me against feminine society--and I
believed and accepted the warning. This tendency of mine exposed me
to the ridicule of those among my companions who were amorously
inclined, but their gay jests at what they termed my "weakness"
never affected me. I trusted in friendship rather than love, and I
had a friend--one for whom at that time I would gladly have laid
down my life--one who inspired me with the most profound attachment.
He, Guido Ferrari, also joined occasionally with others in the good-
natured mockery I brought down upon myself by my shrinking dislike
of women.