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8
Recollections of
[Ch. I.

quire the pen of a Scott, or the pencil of a Claude, to do any thing like justice to its beauty. I often wander in my dreams through its myrtle groves, and the orange trees, with their bright green leaves, delicious blossoms, and golden fruit, seem again before me, as they were in my blessed days of childhood. Every description of tropical fruit flourished here luxuriantly; various species of vine, citron, orange, fig, shadoe, guava, mango—all in endless profusion.

The produce of this garden alone, which the family could not consume, brought annually from £500 to £600. Nature, as if jealous of the beauty of this enchanting spot, had surrounded it on every side with impenetrable barriers. On the east, to speak geographically, it was bounded by a precipice, so steep as to render all approach impracticable. The dark frowning mountain, called Peak Hill, rendered it inaccessible from the south; to the westward it

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