Alas! it was there all the time, the sleepless desire to know and to be assured; I had found nothing, learned nothing; it was all still to seek.  I had but just drugged the hunger into repose, beguiled it, hidden it away under habits and work and activities.  It was something firmer than work, something even more beautiful than beauty, more satisfying than love that I wanted; and most certainly it was not repose.  I had grown to loathe the thought of that, and to shrink back in horror from the dumb slumber of sense and thought.  It was energy, life, activity, motion, that I desired; to see and touch and taste all things, not only things sweet and delightful, but every passionate impulse, every fiery sorrow that thrilled and shook the spirit, every design that claimed the loyalty of mankind.  I grudged, it seemed, even the slumber that divided day from day; I wanted to be up and doing, struggling, working, loving, hating, resisting, protesting.  And even strife and combat seemed a waste of precious time; there was so much to do, to establish, to set right, to cleanse, to invigorate, great designs to be planned and executed, great glories to unfold.  Yet sooner or later I was condemned to drop the tools from my willing hand, to stand and survey the unfinished work, and to grieve that I might no longer take my share.

6

It was even thus that the vision came to me, in a dream of the night.  I had been reading the story of the isle of Circe, and the thunderous curve of the rolling verse had come marching into the mind as the breakers march into the bay.  I dropped the book at last, and slept.

Yes, I was in the wood itself; I could see little save undergrowth and great tree-trunks; here and there a glimpse of sky among the towering foliage.  The thicket was less dense to the left, I thought, and in a moment I came out upon an open space, and saw a young man in the garb of a shepherd, a looped blue tunic, with a hat tossed back upon the shoulders and held there by a cord.  He had leaned a metal stave against a tree, the top of it adorned by a device of crossed wings.  He was stooping down and disengaging something from the earth, so that when I drew near, he had taken it up and was gazing curiously at it.  It was the herb itself!  I saw the prickly flat leaves, the black root, and the little stars of milk-white bloom.  He looked up at me with a smile as though he had expected me, which showed his small white teeth and the shapely curl of his lips; while his dark hair fell in a cluster over his brow.

“There!” he said, “take it!  It is what you are in need of!”

“Yes,” I said, “I want peace, sure enough!” He looked at me for a moment, and then let the herb drop upon the ground.

“Ah no!” he said lightly, “it will not bring you that; it does not give peace, the herb of patience!”

“Well, I will take it,” I said, stooping down; but he planted his foot upon it.  “See,” he said, “it has already rooted itself!” And then I saw that the black root had pierced the ground, and that the fibres were insinuating themselves into the soil.  I clutched at it, but it was firm.