Page 592 - for-the-term-of-his-natural-life

June 30th.—I took a holiday this afternoon, and walked
in the direction of Mount Pitt. The island lay at my feet like—
as sings Mrs. Frere’s favourite poet—‘a summer isle of Eden
lying in dark purple sphere of sea”. Sophocles has the same
idea in the Philoctetes, but I can’t quote it. Note: I measured
a pine twenty-three feet in circumference. I followed a little
brook that runs from the hills, and winds through thick un-
dergrowths of creeper and blossom, until it reaches a lovely
valley surrounded by lofty trees, whose branches, linked to-
gether by the luxurious grape-vine, form an arching bower
of verdure. Here stands the ruin of an old hut, formerly in-
habited by the early settlers; lemons, figs, and guavas are
thick; while amid the shrub and cane a large convolvulus is
entwined, and stars the green with its purple and crimson
flowers. I sat down here, and had a smoke. It seems that the
former occupant of my rooms at the settlement read French;
for in searching for a book to bring with me— I never walk
without a book—I found and pocketed a volume of Balzac.
It proved to be a portion of the Vie Priveé series, and I stum-
bled upon a story called La Fausse Maitresse. With calm
belief in the Paris of his imagination—where Marcas was
a politician, Nucingen a banker, Gobseck a money-lender,
and Vautrin a candidate for some such place as this— Bal-
zac introduces me to a Pole by name Paz, who, loving the
wife of his friend, devotes himself to watch over her happi-
ness and her husband’s interest. The husband gambles and
is profligate. Paz informs the wife that the leanness which
hazard and debauchery have caused to the domestic exche-
quer is due to his extravagance, the husband having lent

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