Alas, I am much afraid that the sanguine dream is ended! It is not that a child's stick, held by a young and womanly hand, has penetrated to the very bottom of the structure carried so deeply into the earth; but that the exterior defences, which protected and closed up the whole, and kept off the rains, have been removed and scattered abroad. And lo! the great autumnal floods pouring down from the Rhigi, Mont Pilate, and the St. Gothard, the father of rivers,—floating above the forests in heavy mists or descending in torrents,—will swamp for ever the internal recesses. And what flame, or what burning life, can the inhabitants oppose to these repeated invasions of the waters, to rebuild their palace and purify it again?
Seated on a fir, I eyed it steadfastly, and as I gazed I dreamed. Though accustomed to the fall of empires and republics, its ruins flung me into an ocean of thought. A wave, and then another wave rose, and throbbed in my heart. The verse of Homer hung upon my lips,—
"And even Troy shall see its day of doom."
What could I do for this ravaged world, this half-ruined city? What for this great laborious insect race, which all living tribes pursue, or devour, or despise, and which nevertheless reveals to us the strongest images of unselfish love, of public devotion, and the social sense in its keenest energy? One thing: to comprehend it,—to explain it, if I could,—to pour light upon it, and supply it with a generous interpretation.
My wife and I returned home dreaming, and understanding one another without speaking. What had previously been an amusement, a curiosity, and a study, thenceforth became a Book.
