Pierre; or The Ambiguities

But all is dim and vague to me. Scarce know I at any time whether I tell you real things, or the unrealest dreams. Always in me, the solidest things melt into dreams, and dreams into solidities.

she,—I mean Lucy,—has never been in the slightest hurry to be married;—that's all. But I shall regard it as a lapsus-lingua in you."

IN the cold courts of justice the dull head demands oaths, and holy writ proofs; but in the warm halls of the heart one single, untestified memory's spark shall suffice to enkindle such a blaze of evidence, that all the corners of conviction are as suddenly lighted up as a midnight city by a burning building, which on every side whirls its reddened

Here, in imperfect inklings, tinglings, presentiments, Pierre began to feel—what all mature men, who are Magians, sooner or later know, and more or less assuredly—that not always in our actions, are we our own factors.

Beware of me, Pierre. There lives not that being in the world of whom thou hast more reason to beware, so you continue but a little longer to act thus with me."

But I shall follow the endless, winding way,—the flowing river in the cave of man; careless whither I be led, reckless where I land.

letter!—Isabel,—sister,—brother,—me, me—my sacred father!—This is some accursed dream!—nay,

No, I shall not, I will not implore thee.—Oh, my brother, my dear, dear Pierre,—help me, fly to me;

the entire one-pillared temple of his moral life; as in some beautiful gothic oratories, one central pillar, trunk-like, upholds the roof. In this shrine, in this niche of this pillar, stood the perfect marble form of his departed father;