e common experience assigns to man," persisted
Glyndon, "which some of the alchemists enjoyed. Is the golden elixir but
a fable?"

"If not, and these men discovered it, they died, because they refused to
live! There may be a mournful warning in your conjecture. Turn once more
to the easel and the canvas!"

So saying, Zanoni waved his hand, and, with downcast eyes and a slow
step, bent his way back into the city.

CHAPTER 2.VIII.

The Goddess Wisdom.

To some she is the goddess great;
To some the milch cow of the field;
Their care is but to calculate
What butter she will yield.
From Schiller.

This last conversation with Zanoni left upon the mind of Glyndon a
tranquillising and salutary effect.

From the confused mists of his fancy glittered forth again those happy,
golden schemes which part from the young ambition of art, to play in the
air, to illumine the space like rays that kindle from the sun. And with
these projects mingled also the vision of a love purer and serener than
his life yet had known. His mind went back into that fair childhood of
genius, when the forbidden fruit is not yet tasted, and we know of no
land beyond the Eden which is gladdened by an Eve. Insensibly before
him there rose the scenes of a home, with his art sufficing for all
excitement, and Viola's love circling occupation with happiness and
content; and in the midst of these fantasies of a future that might
be at his command, he was recalled to the present by the clear, strong
voice of Mervale, the man of common-sense.

Whoever has studied the lives of persons in whom the imagination is
stronger than the will, who suspect their own knowledge of actual life,
and are aware of their facility to impressions, will have observed the
influence which a homely, vigorous, worldly understanding obtains over
such natures. It was thus with Glyndon. His friend had often extricated
him from danger, and saved him from the consequences of imprudence; and
there was something in Mervale's voice alone that damped his enthusiasm,
and often made him yet more ashamed of noble impulses than weak conduct.
For Mervale, though a downright honest man, could not sympathise with
the extravagance of generosity any more than with that of presumption
and credulity. He walked the straight line of life, and felt an equal
contempt for the man who wandered up the hill-sides, no matter whether
to chase a butterfly, or to catch a prospe