Length of years and subsequent reflection have enabled me to trace, indeed, some remote connection between this passage in the English moralist and a portion of the character of Ligeia.  An intensity in thought, action, or speech was possibly, in her, a result, or at least an index, of that gigantic volition which, during our long intercourse, failed to give other and more immediate evidence of its existence.  Of all the women whom I have ever known, she, the outwardly calm, the ever-placid Ligeia, was the most violently a prey to the tumultuous vultures of stern passion.  And of such passion I could form no estimate, save by the miraculous expansion of those eyes which at once so delighted and appalled me,—­by the almost magical melody, modulation, distinctness, and placidity of her very low voice,—­and by the fierce energy (rendered doubly effective by contrast with her manner of utterance) of the wild words which she habitually uttered.

I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia:  it was immense—­such as I have never known in woman.  In the classical tongues was she deeply proficient, and as far as my own acquaintance extended in regard to the modern dialects of Europe, I have never known her at fault.  Indeed upon any theme of the most admired because simply the most abstruse of the boasted erudition of the Academy, have I ever found Ligeia at fault?  How singularly—­how thrillingly, this one point in the nature of my wife has forced itself, at this late period only, upon my attention!  I said her knowledge was such as I have never known in woman—­but where breathes the man who has traversed, and successfully, all the wide areas of moral, physical, and mathematical science?  I saw not then what I now clearly perceive that the acquisitions of Ligeia were gigantic, were astounding; yet I was sufficiently aware of her infinite supremacy to resign myself, with a child-like confidence, to her guidance through the chaotic world of metaphysical investigation at which I was most busily occupied during the earlier years of our marriage.  With how vast a triumph—­with how vivid a delight—­with how much of all that is ethereal in hope did I feel, as she bent over me in studies but little sought—­but less known,—­that delicious vista by slow degrees expanding before me, down whose long, gorgeous, and all untrodden path, I might at length pass onward to the goal of a wisdom too divinely precious not to be forbidden.

How poignant, then, must have been the grief with which, after some years, I beheld my well-grounded expectations take wings to themselves and fly away!  Without Ligeia I was but as a child groping benighted.  Her presence, her readings alone, rendered vividly luminous the many mysteries of the transcendentalism in which we were immersed.  Wanting the radiant luster of her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, grew duller than Saturnian lead.  And now those eyes shone less and less frequently upon the pages over