d
permission to die with her husband. "I have known more happiness with
him in the darkness," she cried, "than thou ever shalt know, O Caesar,
in the full glare of the sunshine, or in all the splendour of thy
mighty empire."

Who that has a heart within him can doubt the truth of her words, or
think without longing of the darkness that so great a love illumined?
Many a dreary, miserable hour must have crawled by as they crouched in
their hiding-place; but are there any, even among those who care only
for the pettiest pleasures of life, who would not rather love with such
depth and fervour in what was almost a tomb, than flaunt a frigid
affection in the heat and light of the sun? Eponina's magnificent cry
is the cry of all those whose hearts have been touched by love; as it
is also the cry of those whose soul has discovered an interest, duty,
or even a hope, in life. The flame that inspired Eponina inspires the
sage also, lost in monotonous hours as she in her gloomy retreat. Love
is the unconscious sun of our soul; and it is when its beams are most
ardent, and purest, that they bear most surprising resemblance to those
that the soul, aglow with justice and truth, with beauty and majesty,
has kindled within itself, and adds to, incessantly. Is not the
happiness that accident brought to the heart of Eponina within reach of
every heart, so the will to possess it be there? Is not all that was
sweetest in this love of hers--the devotion of self, the transformation
of regret into happiness, of pleasure renounced into joy that abides in
the heart for ever; the interest awakened each day by the feeblest
glimmer of light, so it fall on a thing one admires; the immersion in
radiance, in happiness susceptible of infinite expansion, for one has
only to worship the more--are not all these, and a thousand other
forces no less helpful, no less consoling, to be found in the intensest
life of our soul, of our heart, of our thoughts? And was Eponina's love
other than a sudden lightning flash from this life of the soul, come to
her, all unconscious and unprepared? Love does not always reflect;
often indeed does it need no reflection, no search into self, to enjoy
what is best in thought; but, none the less, all that is best in love
is closely akin to all that is best in thought. Suffering seemed ever
radiant in aspect to Eponina, because of her love; but cannot this
thing that love brings about, all unknowing, by fortunate accident, be
a