words, no likenesses or imaginations exist, wherewithal to describe them. Full indeed—yet ever expanding, ever making room to receive—was the conscious being where things kept entering by so many open doors! When a little breeze brushing a bush of heather set its purple bells a ringing, I was myself in the joy of the bells, myself in the joy of the breeze to which responded their sweet tin-tinning' myself in the joy of the sense, and of the soul that received all the joys together. To everything glad I lent the hall of my being wherein to revel. I was a peaceful ocean upon which the ground-swell of a living joy was continually lifting new waves ; yet was the joy ever the same joy, the eternal joy, with tens of thousands of changing forms. Life was a cosmic holiday.
Now I knew that life and truth were one ; that life mere and pure is in itself bliss ; that where being is not bliss, it is not life, but life-in-death. Every inspiration of the dark wind that blew where it listed, went out a sigh of thanksgiving. At last I was ! I lived, and nothing could touch my life ! My darling walked beside me, and we were on our way home to the Father !
So much was ours ere ever the first sun rose upon our freedom : what must not the eternal day bring with it!
"We came to the fearful hollow were once had wallowed the monsters of the earth : it was indeed, as I had beheld it in my dream, a lovely lake. I gazed into its pellucid depths. A whirlpool had swept out the soil in which the abortions burrowed, and at
' Tin tin sonando con si dolce nota
Che '1 ben disposto spirto d' amor turge. Bel Paradiso, x. 142.