ving symbol of the weariness, broken
ambition, learned despair of all the ages. I was engrossed. I heard the
poodle snarling by the stove. I heard the spirits whispering in the
corridor. Vapour rose--or was it indeed the mist from the mountains
among the birch trees?--and out of the vapour came Mephistopheles in the
garb of a travelling scholar. And then--and then the great bargain was
struck. I heard--yes, I did, I actually, and most distinctly, heard a
voice--Faust's--say, "_Let us the sensual deeps explore.... Plunge we in
Time's tumultuous dance, In the rush and roll of circumstance._" A
pause; then the Student's grave and astonished tones came to me: _Eritis
sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum._ The cloak was spread, and on the
burning air Faust was wafted to his new life--nay, not to his new life
merely, but to life itself. He vanished with his guide in a coloured,
flower-like mist. I dropped my hand holding the book down upon the cold
rock by which the cold water splashed. It felt burning hot to my touch.
My head fell upon my breast, and I had my dreams--dreams of the life of
Faust and of its glories, gained by this bargain that he made. And
then--yes, then it was!--the voice of the burn, as from leagues away in
the bosom of this very mist, began to sing like a fairy voice, or a
voice in dreams, and in visions of the night, "_If it was so then, it
might be so now._" At first I scarcely heeded it, for I was enwrapt.
But the song grew louder, more insistent. It was travelling to me from a
far country. I heard it coming: "_If it was so then, it might be so
now_"--"_If it was so then, it might be so now._" How near it was at
last, how loud in my ears! And yet always there was something vague,
visionary about it, something of the mist, I think. At length I heard it
with the attention that is of earth. I came to myself, out of the narrow
Gothic chamber in which the genius of Goethe had prisoned me, and I
stared into the mist, which was gathering thicker as the night began to
fall. It seemed flower-like, and full of strange and mysterious colour.
I trembled. I got up. Still I heard the voice of the burn singing that
monotonous legend, on, and on, and on. Slowly I turned. I climbed the
bank of the den. The sheep scattered lethargically at my approach. I
passed through the creaking iron gate into the garden. Carlounie was
before me. There was something altered, something triumphant about its
aspect. The voice of the burn fa