It was to this state that Mejnour evidently sought to bring the neophyte, and in this elementary initiation the mystic was like every more ordinary sage.  For he who seeks to discover must first reduce himself into a kind of abstract idealism, and be rendered up, in solemn and sweet bondage, to the faculties which contemplate and imagine.

Glyndon noticed that, in their rambles, Mejnour often paused, where the foliage was rifest, to gather some herb or flower; and this reminded him that he had seen Zanoni similarly occupied.  “Can these humble children of Nature,” said he one day to Mejnour,—­“things that bloom and wither in a day, be serviceable to the science of the higher secrets?  Is there a pharmacy for the soul as well as the body, and do the nurslings of the summer minister not only to human health but spiritual immortality?”

“If,” answered Mejnour, “a stranger had visited a wandering tribe before one property of herbalism was known to them; if he had told the savages that the herbs which every day they trampled under foot were endowed with the most potent virtues; that one would restore to health a brother on the verge of death; that another would paralyse into idiocy their wisest sage; that a third would strike lifeless to the dust their most stalwart champion; that tears and laughter, vigour and disease, madness and reason, wakefulness and sleep, existence and dissolution, were coiled up in those unregarded leaves,—­would they not have held him a sorcerer or a liar?  To half the virtues of the vegetable world mankind are yet in the darkness of the savages I have supposed.  There are faculties within us with which certain herbs have affinity, and over which they have power.  The moly of the ancients is not all a fable.”

The apparent character of Mejnour differed in much from that of Zanoni; and while it fascinated Glyndon less, it subdued and impressed him more.  The conversation of Zanoni evinced a deep and general interest for mankind,—­a feeling approaching to enthusiasm for art and beauty.  The stories circulated concerning his habits elevated the mystery of his life by actions of charity and beneficence.  And in all this there was something genial and humane that softened the awe he created, and tended, perhaps, to raise suspicions as to the loftier secrets that he arrogated to himself.  But Mejnour seemed wholly indifferent to all the actual world.  If he committed no evil, he seemed equally apathetic to good.  His deeds relieved no want, his words pitied no distress.  What we call the heart appeared to have merged into the intellect.  He moved, thought, and lived like some regular and calm abstraction, rather than one who yet retained, with the form, the feelings and sympathies of his kind.

Glyndon once, observing the tone of supreme indifference with which he spoke of those changes on the face of earth which he asserted he had witnessed, ventured to remark to him the distinction he had noted.