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    Devereux — Volume 05
    Devereux — Volume 05
    Devereux — Volume 05
    Ebook81 pages1 hour

    Devereux — Volume 05

    By Edward Bulwer-Lytton

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    Devereux — Volume 05
    Author

    Edward Bulwer-Lytton

    Edward Bulwer-Lytton, engl. Romanschriftsteller und Politiker, ist bekannt geworden durch seine populären historischen/metaphysischen und unvergleichlichen Romane wie „Zanoni“, „Rienzi“, „Die letzten Tage von Pompeji“ und „Das kommende Geschlecht“. Ihm wird die Mitgliedschaft in der sagenumwobenen Gemeinschaft der Rosenkreuzer nachgesagt. 1852 wurde er zum Kolonialminister von Großbritannien ernannt.

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      Devereux — Volume 05 - Edward Bulwer-Lytton

      The Project Gutenberg EBook Devereux, by Bulwer-Lytton, Book V. #56 in our series by Edward Bulwer-Lytton

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      **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

      **EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

      *****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers*****

      Title: Devereux, Book V.

      Author: Edward Bulwer-Lytton

      Release Date: March 2005 [EBook #7628] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on February 25, 2003]

      Edition: 10

      Language: English

      *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DEVEREUX, BY LYTTON, BOOK V. ***

      This eBook was produced by Dagny, dagnypg@yahoo.com and David Widger, widger@cecomet.net

      BOOK V.

      CHAPTER I.

      A PORTRAIT.

      MYSTERIOUS impulse at the heart, which never suffers us to be at rest, which urges us onward as by an unseen yet irresistible law—human planets in a petty orbit, hurried forever and forever, till our course is run and our light is quenched—through the circle of a dark and impenetrable destiny! art thou not some faint forecast and type of our wanderings hereafter; of the unslumbering nature of the soul; of the everlasting progress which we are predoomed to make through the countless steps and realms and harmonies in the infinite creation? Oh, often in my rovings have I dared to dream so,—often have I soared on the wild wings of thought above the smoke and stir of this dim earth, and wrought, from the restless visions of my mind, a chart of the glories and the wonders which the released spirit may hereafter visit and behold!

      What a glad awakening from self,—what a sparkling and fresh draught from a new source of being,—what a wheel within wheel, animating, impelling, arousing all the rest of this animal machine, is the first excitement of Travel! the first free escape from the bonds of the linked and tame life of cities and social vices,—the jaded pleasure and the hollow love, the monotonous round of sordid objects and dull desires,—the eternal chain that binds us to things and beings, mockeries of ourselves,—alike, but oh, how different! the shock that brings us nearer to men only to make us strive against them, and learn, from the harsh contest of veiled deceit and open force, that the more we share the aims of others, the more deeply and basely rooted we grow to the littleness of self!

      I passed more lingeringly through France than I did through the other portions of my route. I had dwelt long enough in the capital to be anxious to survey the country. It was then that the last scale which the magic of Louis Quatorze and the memory of his gorgeous court had left upon the mortal eye fell off, and I saw the real essence of that monarch's greatness and the true relics of his reign. I saw the poor, and the degraded, and the racked, and the priest-ridden, tillers and peoplers of the soil, which made the substance beneath the glittering and false surface,—the body of that vast empire, of which I had hitherto beheld only the face, and THAT darkly, and for the most part covered by a mask!

      No man can look upon France, beautiful France,—her rich soil, her temperate yet maturing clime, the gallant and bold spirits which she produces, her boundaries so indicated and protected by Nature itself, her advantages of ocean and land, of commerce and agriculture,—and not wonder that her prosperity should be so bloated, and her real state so wretched and diseased.

      Let England draw the moral, and beware not only of wars which exhaust, but of governments which impoverish. A waste of the public wealth is the most lasting of public afflictions; and the treasury which is drained by extravagance must be refilled by crime.*

      * Tacitus.

      I remember one beautiful evening an accident to my carriage occasioned my sojourn for a whole afternoon in a small village. The Cure honoured me with a visit; and we strolled, after a slight repast, into the hamlet. The priest was complaisant, quiet in manner, and not ill informed for his obscure station and scanty opportunities of knowledge; he did not seem, however, to possess the vivacity of his countrymen, but was rather melancholy and pensive, not only in his expression of countenance, but his cast of thought.

      You have a charming scene here: I almost feel as if it were a sin to leave it so soon.

      We were, indeed, in a pleasant and alluring spot at the time I addressed this observation to the good Cure. A little rivulet emerged from the copse to the left, and ran sparkling and dimpling beneath our feet, to deck with a more living verdure the village green, which it intersected with a winding nor unmelodious stream. We had paused, and I was leaning against an old and solitary chestnut-tree, which commanded the whole scene. The village was a little in the rear, and the smoke from its few chimneys rose slowly to the silent and deep skies, not wholly unlike the human wishes, which, though they spring from the grossness and the fumes of earth, purify themselves as they ascend to heaven. And from the

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