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    Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 08
    Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 08
    Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 08
    Ebook67 pages53 minutes

    Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 08

    By Edward Bulwer Lytton

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 08
    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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      Book preview

      Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 08 - Edward Bulwer Lytton

      Project Gutenberg EBook, Alice, or The Mysteries, by Lytton, Book VIII #210 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: Alice, or The Mysteries, Book VIII

      Author: Edward Bulwer Lytton

      Release Date: January 2006 [EBook #9770] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on October 15, 2003]

      Edition: 10

      Language: English

      *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, ALICE, BY LYTTON, BOOK VIII ***

      Produced by Dagny; and by David Widger

      Corrected and updated text and HTML PG Editions of the complete 11 volume set may be found at:

      http://www.gutenberg.org/files/9774/9774.txt

      http://www.gutenberg.org/files/9774/9774-h/9774-h.htm

      BOOK VIII.

        O Fate! O Heaven!—what have ye then decreed?

                       SOPHOCLES: OEd. Tyr. 738.

        "Insolent pride . . .

        . . . . . .

        The topmost crag of the great precipice

        Surmounts—to rush to ruin."

      Ibid. 874.

      CHAPTER I.

        . . . SHE is young, wise, fair,

        In these to Nature she's immediate heir.

        . . . . . .

        . . . Honours best thrive

        When rather from our acts we them derive

        Than our foregoers!—All's Well that Ends Well.

      LETTER FROM ERNEST MALTRAVERS TO THE HON. FREDERICK CLEVELAND.

      EVELYN is free; she is in Paris; I have seen her,—I see her daily!

      How true it is that we cannot make a philosophy of indifference! The affections are stronger than all our reasonings. We must take them into our alliance, or they will destroy all our theories of self-government. Such fools of fate are we, passing from system to system, from scheme to scheme, vainly seeking to shut out passion and sorrow-forgetting that they are born within us—and return to the soul as the seasons to the earth! Yet,—years, many years ago, when I first looked gravely into my own nature and being here, when I first awakened to the dignity and solemn responsibilities of human life, I had resolved to tame and curb myself into a thing of rule and measure. Bearing within me the wound scarred over but never healed, the consciousness of wrong to the heart that had leaned upon me, haunted by the memory of my lost Alice, I shuddered at new affections bequeathing new griefs. Wrapped in a haughty egotism, I wished not to extend my empire over a wider circuit than my own intellect and passions. I turned from the trader-covetousness of bliss, that would freight the wealth of life upon barks exposed to every wind upon the seas of Fate; I was contented with the hope to pass life alone, honoured, though unloved. Slowly and reluctantly I yielded to the fascinations of Florence Lascelles. The hour that sealed the compact between us was one of regret and alarm. In vain I sought to deceive myself,—I felt that I did not love. And then I imagined that Love was no longer in my nature,—that I had exhausted its treasures before my time, and left my heart a bankrupt. Not till the last—not till that glorious soul broke out in all its brightness the nearer it approached the source to which it has returned—did I feel of what tenderness she was worthy and I was capable. She died, and the world was darkened! Energy, ambition, my former aims and objects, were all sacrificed at her tomb. But amidst ruins and through the darkness, my soul yet supported me; I could no longer hope, but I could endure. I was resolved that I would not be subdued, and that the world should not hear me groan.

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