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dew from the deep flower-cups; when the tip of the rosebud thrills under the caress of the first sunbeam, and
earth and heaven smile in mutual greeting. Sad is the Soul-Ego alone as it gazes on awakening nature from
the high couch opposite the large bay-window.
How calm is the approaching noon as the shadow creeps steadily on the sundial towards the hour of rest!
Now the hot sun begins to melt the clouds in the limpid air and the last shreds of the morning mist that lingers
on the tops of the distant hills vanish in it. All nature is prepared to rest at the hot and lazy hour of midday.
The feathered tribes cease their song; their soft, gaudy wings droop and they hang their drowsy heads,
seeking refuge from the burning heat. A morning lark is busy nestling in the bordering bushes under the
clustering flowers of the pomegranate and the sweet bay of the Mediterranean. The active songster has
become voiceless.
"Its voice will resound as joyfully again tomorrow!" sighs the Soul-Ego, as it listens to the dying buzzing of
the insects on the verdant turf. "Shall ever mine?"
And now the flower-scented breeze hardly stirs the languid heads of the luxuriant plants. A solitary
palm-tree, growing out of the cleft of a moss-covered rock, next catches the eye of the Soul-Ego. Its once
upright, cylindrical trunk has been twisted out of shape and half-broken by the nightly blasts of the
north-west winds. And as it stretches wearily its drooping feathery arms, swayed to and fro in the blue
pellucid air, its body trembles and threatens to break in two at the first new gust that may arise.
"And then, the severed part will fall into the sea, and the once stately palm will be no more," soliloquizes the
Soul-Ego as it gazes sadly out of its windows.
Everything returns to life, in the cool, old bower at the hour of sunset. The shadows on the sun-dial become
with every moment thicker, and animate nature awakens busier than ever in the cooler hours of approaching
night. Birds and insects chirrup and buzz their last evening hymns around the tall and still powerful Form, as
it paces slowly and wearily along the gravel walk. And now its heavy gaze falls wistfully on the azure bosom
of the tranquil sea. The gulf sparkles like a gem-studded carpet of blue-velvet in the farewell dancing
sunbeams, and smiles like a thoughtless, drowsy child, weary of tossing about. Further on, calm and serene in
its perfidious beauty, the open sea stretches far and wide the smooth mirror of its cool waters -- salt and
bitter as human tears. It lies in its treacherous repose like a gorgeous, sleeping monster, watching over the
unfathomed mystery of its dark abysses. Truly the monumentless cemetry of the millions sunk in its depths . .
.
"Without a grave,
Unknell'd, uncoffined and unknown . . . ."
while the sorry relic of the once noble Form pacing yonder, once that its hour strikes and the deep-voiced
V 14
Nightmare Tales
bells toll the knell for the departed soul, shall be laid out in state and pomp. Its dissolution will be announced
by millions of trumpet voices. Kings, princes and the mighty ones of the earth will be present at its obsequies,
or will send their representatives with sorrowful faces and condoling messages to those left behind . . .
"One point gained, over those 'uncoffined and unknown'," is the bitter reflection of the Soul-Ego.
Thus glides past one day after the other; and as swift-winged Time urges his flight, every vanishing hour
destroying some thread in the tissue of life, the Soul-Ego is gradually transformed in its views of things and
men. Flitting between two eternities, far away from its birthplace, solitary among its crowd of physicians, and
attendants, the Form is drawn with every day nearer to its Spirit-Soul. Another light unapproached and
unapproachable in days of joy, softly descends upon the weary prisoner. It sees now that which it had never
perceived before. . . .
VI
How grand, how mysterious are the spring nights on the seashore when the winds are chained and the
elements lulled! A solemn silence reigns in nature. Alone the silvery, scarcely audible ripple of the wave, as it
runs caressingly over the moist sand, kissing shells and pebbles on its up and down journey, reaches the ear
like the regular soft breathing of a sleeping bosom. How small, how insignificant and helpless feels man,
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