what she asks. Nor will she receive even these

from other than pure hands, pious lips, and chaste bosoms.

SPANUS.

That which is precious to me that which I love the best-pure hands, pious lips, a bosom not less innocent than her own, shall be my offering, Porsa! Do thou go with me thither.

Spanus may have meant nothing more by his invitation than that the divinity would honour, as he himself did, the chastity and sanctity of his wife. Or else he may have felt some unrecognised wish, which his manhood disclaimed, for a companion in his perils.

Be

But Porsa, whose imagination had been awakened by the double bereavement of her children, understood the suggestion quite otherwise. It seemed not less alarming than affectionate. side that she shuddered at the thought of this just man Setubal as a nurse in her place; it was a startling proposition to face Destiny, or Hecate, or Proserpine, or peradventure all three at once. She would have followed her husband across the Styx, if he and his children might have been benefited by the enterprise. But now either Setubal would resign her babes to the foxes, or

the foxes to Setubal. The commendations and

caresses of Spanus affrighted her. What was it that he designed? Did he mean to take her for his sacrifice? Had he been maddened by misery? Like a victim disengaged from the altar, she fled back even more wildly and fearfully than she had approached. His calls redoubled her speed. It was from the terrors of Destiny that she ran to the rescue of her children.

Spanus meanwhile bethought himself of his vow that he would return to them no more till he could protect them and sustain them. Setubal was not the kind of guardian which he would have preferred; nor, indeed, might Setubal accept the charge. The unhappy peasant had regained his liberty with some little embarrassment as to the use of it; but love, pity, shame, and want, were his instructors. After having raised the cloak, to clear his own and Porsa's tears from his countenance, he fastened it about his neck that he might climb with hands and feet unencumbered, and present himself before the goddess in his sacrificial robe. When the affrighted Porsa ventured to look back, he was midway, and out of sight.

CHAPTER V.

ARGUMENT.

Spanus uneasy because he can find nothing to alarm him. The Fountain. -The Altar. The Fawn.. Setubal's young Wife Matula. - Her Studies and Partialities. - Spanus first ventures and then deliberates. -Appeals for instruction to the Idol. Departs satisfied with its acquiescence. Is intercepted by a great Army. There is one Moral Question on which alone he and Porsa have ever disagreed. Spanus adheres to his Opinion.― Presents his Fawn and himself.

TRADITION had represented this rocky solitude as terrible even to the innocent. It was the abode of some great deity whose wrath would pursue and consume every other worshipper. On reconsideration, the disconsolate peasant began to repent his vow, and tremble at its temerity. Might he so far trust a dream? could the misery which he endured recommend him as a suppliant? was it not rather the chastisement of presumption, of ingratitude, of ignorance, of some trespass unconsciously committed, or some duty negligently discharged? If so, his presence there might seem like the insolence of pride, and still farther aggravate punishment, this second time provoked by its

obduracy. Why suppose that grief can incline the Gods? May it not be significant of their displeasure? Who else had inflicted it, and hitherto had refused to remove it? What care they for sighs extorted by their own severity? Innocence! It were wiser to renounce its privileges on his own behalf, unless some joint claim might be preferred with Porsa and her children. No murmurs had escaped from them, no irreverent impatience, as if in the same degree as they were guiltless and harmless, the deities were cruel. Their images softened his heart, but animated his For their sakes he would confront the

courage. goddess.

He ascends the cliffs. He stands, at last, upon the crag from which that visionary huntress had beckoned him in his sleep. Prepared for horrors, he is now disconcerted by their absence; by silence so profound, tranquillity so unlike his apprehensions. The peaceful beauty of the place, its seclusion and quietude; its dewy verdure and airy freshness are perplexing to him. From childhood he had been acquainted with a hundred scenes more wild, and in appearance not less mysterious. Could this be the residence of her, by whose truth and sanctity the Gods confirm their oaths on whose altar lie heaped for ever,

-

new griefs, ruined hopes, vain endeavours, abortive schemes? Is it here that she is worshipped by terror, for whom there can be no escape- by wisdom uselessly provident - by remorse and misery and despair, all equal in their impotence? Where is that double fountain of tears and blood? Can these voiceless breezes be indeed the sighs from breaking hearts?

rare.

The rocks before him and around him permitted no farther progress, or he would have continued to advance, still seeking beyond them for Pluto's gate. A native of the forest, he had seen no trees so large, no grass so verdant, no flowers so Wandering on the mossy turf without choice as to his direction, nothing else alarmed him except such unvaried stillness; nor did that much. But in the same proportion as he regained his courage, he lost his hopes. There was no huntress, and no trace of either Hecate Tergemina or Proserpina Triforma. It soon appeared a misfortune, or at least a discouragement, that he could encounter so little of which to feel afraid. Rather disappointed than relieved, he rested upon the turf. Should he go farther? there was no path. Should he go back? he had no home. Another tenant occupied the habitation of his ancestors and his infancy. What respite now remained for