"Everything there is an exaggeration. Coming here from England is like stepping out of a fog into an almost exhausted receiver; but you've no idea what light is, till you've been in those inland hills. You think a blue sky the perfection of bliss? When you see a white sky, a dome of colorless crystal, with purple swells of mountain heaving round you, and a wilderness of golden greens royally languid below, while stretches of a scarlet blaze, enough to ruin a weak constitution, flaunt from the rank vines that lace every thicket, and the whole world, and you with it, seems breaking into blossom,—why, then you know what light is and can do. The very wind there by day is bright, now faint, now stinging, and makes a low, wiry music through the loose sprays, as if they were tense harp-strings. Nothing startles; all is like a grand composition utterly wrought out. What a blessing it is that the blacks have been imported there,—their swarthiness is in such consonance!"
"No; the native race was in better consonance. You are so enthusiastic, it is pity you ever came away."
"Not at all. I didn't know anything about it till I came back."
"But a mere animal or vegetable life is not much. What was ever done in the tropics?"
"Almost all the world's history,—wasn't it?"
"No, indeed; only the first, most trifling, and barbarian movements."
"At all events, you are full of blessedness in those climates, and that is the end and aim of all action; and if Nature will do it for you, there is no need of your interference. It is much better to be than to do;—one is a strife, the other is possession."
"You mean being as the complete attainment? There is only one Being, then. All the rest of us are"——
"Oh, dear me! that sounds like metaphysics! Don't!"
"So you see, you are not full of blessedness there."