A certain Manoel M. L. had lived the greater part of his youth in a Southern seaport. He seemed to lack nothing that could make him happy; he enjoyed everything which his youth and his native town offered to him, was respected by men and loved by women, and by his friends also; and every one who knew him thought him a lucky man. But he himself often thought that something was wanting; that his happiness was not real; something of weariness and a dead weight was mingled therein, and this oppressed his mind with melancholy. Perhaps he was dissatisfied with himself for living as he did, instead of living a life which he was not able clearly to imagine. . . . Probably the reason was that he was living in a place where the inhabitants breathe the golden dust of far-off countries, and look out on the blue ocean which stirs all their longings, and where with a single step they can tear themselves away and sail
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