far over them, hung jetty lashes of great length.  The brows, slightly irregular in outline, had the same tint.  The “strangeness,” however, which I found in the eyes was of a nature distinct from the formation, or the color, or the brilliancy of the features, and must, after all, be referred to the expression.  Ah, word of no meaning! behind whose vast latitude of mere sound we intrench our ignorance of so much of the spiritual.  The expression of the eyes of Ligeia!  How for long hours have I pondered upon it!  How have I, through the whole of a midsummer night, struggled to fathom it!  What was it—­that something more profound than the well of Democritus—­which lay far within the pupils of my beloved?  What was it?  I was possessed with a passion to discover.  Those eyes! those large, those shining, those divine orbs! they became to me twin stars of Leda, and I to them devoutest of astrologers.

There is no point, among the many incomprehensible anomalies of the science of mind, more thrillingly exciting than the fact—­never, I believe, noticed in the schools—­than in our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember.  And thus how frequently, in my intense scrutiny of Ligeia’s eyes, have I felt approaching the full knowledge of their expression—­felt it approaching—­yet not quite be mine—­and so at length entirely depart!  And (strange, oh, strangest mystery of all!) I found, in the commonest objects of the universe, a circle of analogies to that expression.  I mean to say that, subsequently to the period when Ligeia’s beauty passed into my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, I derived, from many existences in the material world, a sentiment such as I felt always around, within me, by her large and luminous orbs.  Yet not the more could I define that sentiment, or analyze, or even steadily view it.  I recognized it, let me repeat, sometimes in the survey of a rapidly growing vine—­in the contemplation of a moth, a butterfly, a chrysalis, a stream of running water.  I have felt it in the ocean—­in the falling of a meteor.  I have felt it in the glances of unusually aged people.  And there are one or two stars in heaven (one especially, a star of the sixth magnitude, double and changeable, to be found near the large star in Lyra) in a telescopic scrutiny of which I have been made aware of the feeling.  I have been filled with it by certain sounds from stringed instruments, and not unfrequently by passages from books.  Among innumerable other instances, I well remember something in a volume of Joseph Glanvill, which (perhaps merely from its quaintness—­who shall say?) never failed to inspire me with the sentiment:  “And the will therein lieth, which dieth not.  Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor?  For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness.  Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.”