Digital heart book

I love to recall, and would that I could
reproduce that life, the unforgettable, the
unrememberable. The memory, which shows so wise a
backwardness in registering pain, is besides an
imperfect recorder of extended pleasures; and a long-
continued wellbeing escapes (as it were, by its mass)
our petty methods of commemoration. On a part of our
life's map there lies a roseate, undecipherable haze,
and that is all.
Of one thing, if I am at all to trust my own annals, I
was delightedly conscious. Day after day, in the sun-
gilded cabin, the whisky-dealer's thermometer stood at
84 degrees. Day after day the air had the same
indescribable liveliness and sweetness, soft and
nimble, and cool as the cheek of health. Day after day
the sun flamed; night after night the moon beaconed, or
the stars paraded their lustrous regiment. I was aware
of a spiritual change, or, perhaps, rather a molecular
reconstitution. My bones were sweeter to me. I had
come home to my own climate, and looked back with pity
on those damp and wintry zones miscalled the temperate.


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