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152ARIADNE.in her recoiled from the Christian honors of thegrave. AVith him she would have gone to hergrave as a child to its mother;but withouthim if she were dead under the sod, or waUedin the stones of a crypt,it seemed to her thatshe would wake and rise, when the lips of otherstouched him.Alas! alas!she never thought of him save asalone. She never knew what were those apeswhich jabbered in the bay tree of his fame andpassions. He was still sacred to her, with thesublime sanctity of a great love which enfolds thething it cherishes as with the divine mist, whichof old veiled the gods.AVhoever can still love thus is happy — aye,even in wretchedness, even when alone. It iswhen the mist has dissolved, as the mists of themorning, and the nakedness and the deformityand the scars which it hid are disclosed, it isthen, and then only,that we are miserable beyondall reach of solace, and canhave no refuge but inthe eternal oblivion of that death which then weknow can be only a forgetting and an end, withouthope.