At the approach of the real light Appadocca felt his sensibility deeply moved by the view which opened before him. The great Atlantic rolled heavily below, and it was only where the horizon limited vision that its silently rising mountains would appear as if they were at last levelled into easy quietness. Its moving volumes were as yet undisturbed by the wind, and the transparent haze that still floated over its surface, imparted an air of repose that well befitted the hour. The mountain-peaks of the little islands that lined the shore, rose forth to contrast the wild waste of waters, and then came the high land on which he stood, that verged to the north-west into capacious bays and havens, and pointed out towards the east, and advanced high and lofty like a battalion of fearless soldiers, against the billows that lashed them, and that had likely lashed them long long before they bore the adventurous Columbus to its foot. At his back, also, lay the level and wide-spreading Savannahs, where, too, only the horizon bourned the sight.
Solitary and alone in such a situation, Appadocca could not refuse to his heart the pleasure of admiring such a scene; and, although prudence, not to say safety, pressed him to hie away from the Rancha, he could not resist the temptation of resting and feasting his eyes upon that which was before and around him.
Rousing himself, however, from the influence of this feeling, he endeavoured, and succeeded in descending the cliffs, and resolved to wait until fortune, or, to use his own expression, destiny, should send in his way, one of the numerous little vessels that trade along that coast.
That day passed, and destiny—the broken reed—was not kind enough to send a vessel his way. Worn out with anxiety, and weakened by the want of food, he drew himself up in the chasm of a rock, with the intention of resting himself there in the best way that his unbroken fast, and the uninviting accommodation would permit.
Despite these two unfavourable circumstances, he fell into a deep sleep, and had been under its influences for some hours, when he was startled by a most terrifying noise. It seemed that numbers of savage animals were assembled immediately above his head, and were designedly giving vent in one unbroken roar to their dismal and fearful howlings, that rose above the measured breakings of the billows below.
“What can this be,” said Appadocca to himself, as he awoke; “what now comes to break this slumber that weans me from the sense of hunger?” So saying, he jumped up and walked a little way from the foot of the cave, across the beach, and looked up. He perceived the dark outlines of some large animals, that were moving about restlessly on the ridge, and were howling in the manner we have described.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, “shall I have escaped from the scaffold, the waves of the Atlantic ocean, and from the jaws of the sharks that fill the bocas, to be, at last, ignominiously devoured by wild beasts; by Heaven, then, whatsoever you be, if you attack me, I warn you, you will attack one that is prepared for you, and one who is ready, at this moment, to make any one, or any thing, bear a heavy amount of chastisement.”
This was spoken in a resolute and even fierce and over-confident tone. The speaker seemed impatient.
There has not been, perhaps, a single philosopher since the human race began, to ruminate on rules and plans of human excellence, who can be said to have entirely controlled the emotion of anger. All our other feelings seem to give way, and yield to the discipline of a well-watched life, and to the strong volition of our reason, but that passion alone still remains uncontrollable; smothered it may be for a time, it is true, but it is liable on the very first occasion, to be fiercely kindled. It seems to be so intimately connected, although negatively with the pleasures of the mind and body, and consequently with the gratification of the actual cultivation of philosophy itself, that any derangement of any of these things acts in producing the feeling which human perfection is too weak to avoid.