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Esoteric Buddhism

A. P. Sinnett

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

A. Conan Doyle

Paradoxes of the Highest Science

Eliphas Levi

Leaves of Grass

Walt Whitman

Novels: The pilgrims of the Rhine. The ideal world. Zicci

by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton


Allow me, my dear brother, to dedicate this work to

<?you. The greater part of it (namely, the tales which

, vary and relieve the voyages of Gertrude and Trevylyan)

* was written in the pleasant excursion we made together

«^some years ago. Among the associations — some sad,

./and some pleasing — connected with the general design,

. none are so agreeahle to me as those that remind me of

} the friendship subsisting between us, and which, unlike

.ffhat of near relations in general, has grown stronger and

^"more intimate as our footsteps have receded farther from

'--the fields where we played together in our childhood. I

.jdedicate this work to you with the more pleasure, not

jonly when I remember that it has always been a favorite

—with yourself, but when I think that it is one of my

I writings most liked in foreign countries; and I may

-^.possibly, therefore, have found a record destined to

Jendure the affectionate esteem which this dedication is

/Hntended to convey.

Yours, etc. $ E. L. B.

a London, April 23, 1840.


Could I prescribe to the critic and to the public, I would wish that this work might be tried by the rules rather of poetry than prose, for according to those rules have been both its conception and its execution; and I feel that something of sympathy with the author's design is requisite to win indulgence for the superstitions he has incorporated with his tale,— for the floridity of his style and the redundance of his descriptions. Perhaps, indeed, it would be impossible, in attempting to paint the scenery and embody some of the Legends of the Rhine, not to give (it may be, too loosely) the reins to the imagination, or to escape the influence of that wild German spirit which I have sought to transfer to a colder tongue.

I have made the experiment of selecting for the main interest of my work the simplest materials, and weaving upon them the ornaments given chiefly to subjects of a more fanciful nature. I know not how far I have succeeded, but various reasons have conspired to make this the work, above all others that I have written, which has given me the most delight (though not unmixed with melancholy) in producing, and in which my mind, for the time, has been the most completely absorbed. But the ardor of composition is often dispro




With the younger class of my readers, this work has had the good fortune to find especial favor; perhaps because it is in itself a collection of the thoughts and sentiments that constitute the romance of youth. It has little to do with the positive truths of our actual life, and does not pretend to deal with the larger passions and more stirring interests of our kind. It is but an episode out of the graver epic of human destinies. It requires no explanation of its purpose, and no analysis of its story; the one is evident, the other simple: the first seeks hut to illustrate visihle nature through the poetry of the affections: the other is but the narrative of the most real of mortal sorrows which the author attempts to take out of the region of pain, by various accessories from the ideal. The connecting tale itself is but the string that binds into a garland the wild flowers cast upon a grave.

The descriptions of the Rhine have been considered by Germans sufficiently faithful to render this tribute to their land and their legends one of the popular guidebooks along the course it illustrates, — especially to such tourists as wish not only to take in with the eye the inventory of the river, but to seize the peculiar spirit which invests the wave and the bank with a beauty that can only be made visible by reflection. He little comprehends the true charm of the Rhine, who gazes on the vines on the hill-tops without a thought of the imaginary world with which their recesses have been peopled by the graceful credulity of old; who surveys the steep ruins that overshadow the water, untouched by one lesson from the pensive morality of time. Everywhere around us is the evidence of perished opinions and departed races,— everywhere around us, also, the rejoicing fertility of unconquerable nature, and the calm progress of man himself through the infinite cycles of decay. He who would judge adequately of a landscape, must regard it not only with the painter's eye, but with the poet's. The feelings which the sight of any scene in nature conveys to the mind, — more especially of any scene on which history or fiction has left its trace,— must depend upon our sympathy with those associations which make up what may be called the spiritual character of the spot. If indifferent to those associations, we should see only hedgerows and ploughed land in the battle-field of Bannockburn; and the traveller would but look on a dreary waste, whether he stood amidst the piles of the Druid on Salisbury Plain, or trod his bewildered way over the broad expanse on which the Chaldean first learned to number the stars.

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