Lilith
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Lilith
by George MacDonald
I took a walk on Spaulding's Farm the other afternoon. I saw the
setting sun lighting up the opposite side of a stately pine wood.
Its golden rays straggled into the aisles of the wood as into some
noble hall. I was impressed as if some ancient and altogether
admirable and shining family had settled there in that part of the
land called Concord, unknown to me,--to whom the sun was servant,--
who had not gone into society in the village,--who had not been
called on. I saw their park, their pleasure-ground, beyond through
the wood, in Spaulding's cranberry-meadow. The pines furnished them
with gables as they grew. Their house was not obvious to vision;
their trees grew through it. I do not know whether I heard the sounds
of a suppressed hilarity or not. They seemed to recline on the
sunbeams. They have sons and daughters. They are quite well. The
farmer's cart-path, which leads directly through their hall, does not
in the least put them out,--as the muddy bottom of a pool is sometimes
seen through the reflected skies. They never heard of Spaulding,
and do not know that he is their neighbor,--notwithstanding I heard
him whistle as he drove his team through the house. Nothing can equal
the serenity of their lives. Their coat of arms is simply a lichen.
I saw it painted on the pines and oaks. Their attics were in the tops
of the trees. They are of no politics. There was no noise of labor.
I did not perceive that they were weaving or spinning. Yet I did
detect, when the wind lulled and hearing was done away, the finest
imaginable sweet musical hum,--as of a distant hive in May, which
perchance was the sound of their thinking. They had no idle thoughts,
and no one without could see their work, for their industry was not
as in knots and excrescences embayed.
But I find it difficult to remember them. They fade irrevocably out of my mind even now while I speak and endeavor to recall them, and recollect myself. It is only after a long and serious effort to recollect my best thoughts that I become again aware of their cohabitancy. If it were not for such families as this, I think I should move out of Concord.
Thoreau: "WALKING."
Table of Contents
CHAPTER IChapter XXXV
THE LIBRARY
CHAPTER II
THE MIRROR
CHAPTER III
THE RAVEN
CHAPTER IV
SOMEWHERE OR NOWHERE?
CHAPTER V
THE OLD CHURCH
CHAPTER VI
THE SEXTON'S COTTAGE
CHAPTER VII
THE CEMETERY
THAT SLEEPEST, AND ARISE FROM THE
CHAPTER VIII
MY FATHER'S MANUSCRIPT
CHAPTER IX
I REPENT
CHAPTER X
THE BAD BURROW
CHAPTER XI
THE EVIL WOOD
CHAPTER XII
FRIENDS AND FOES
CHAPTER XIII
THE LITTLE ONES
CHAPTER XIV
A CRISIS
CHAPTER XV
A STRANGE HOSTESS
THE LAND OF WATERS;
CHAPTER XVI
A GRUESOME DANCE
CHAPTER XVII
A GROTESQUE TRAGEDY
CHAPTER XVIII
DEAD OR ALIVE?
CHAPTER XIX
THE WHITE LEECH
CHAPTER XX
GONE!--BUT HOW?
CHAPTER XXI
THE FUGITIVE MOTHER
CHAPTER XXII
BULIKA
CHAPTER XXIII
A WOMAN OF BULIKA
CHAPTER XXIV
THE WHITE LEOPARDESS
CHAPTER XXV
THE PRINCESS
CHAPTER XXVI
A BATTLE ROYAL
CHAPTER XXVII
THE SILENT FOUNTAIN
CHAPTER XXVIII
I AM SILENCED
CHAPTER XXIX
THE PERSIAN CAT
CHAPTER XXX
ADAM EXPLAINS
CHAPTER XXXI
THE SEXTON'S OLD HORSE
CHAPTER XXXII
THE LOVERS AND THE BAGS
CHAPTER XXXIII
LONA'S NARRATIVE
CHAPTER XXXIV
PREPARATION
THE LITTLE ONES IN BULIKA
CHAPTER XXXVI
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE SHADOW
CHAPTER XXXVIII
TO THE HOUSE OF BITTERNESS
CHAPTER XXXIX
THAT NIGHT
CHAPTER XL
THE HOUSE OF DEATH
CHAPTER XLI
I AM SENT
CHAPTER XLII
I SLEEP THE SLEEP
CHAPTER XLIII
THE DREAMS THAT CAME
CHAPTER XLIV
THE WAKING
CHAPTER XLV
THE JOURNEY HOME
CHAPTER XLVI
THE CITY
CHAPTER XLVII
THE "ENDLESS ENDING"
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