LILITH
By George MacDonald
Contents
CHAPTER I. THE LIBRARY
CHAPTER II. THE MIRROR
CHAPTER III. THE RAVEN
CHAPTER IV. SOMEWHERE OR NOWHERE?
CHAPTER V. THE OLD CHURCH
CHAPTER VI. THE SEXTON’S COTTAGE
CHAPTER VII. THE CEMETERY
CHAPTER VIII. MY FATHER’S MANUSCRIPT
CHAPTER IX. I REPENT
CHAPTER X. THE BAD BURROW
CHAPTER XI. THE EVIL WOOD
CHAPTER XII. FRIENDS AND FOES
CHAPTER XIII. THE LITTLE ONES
CHAPTER XIV. A CRISIS
CHAPTER XV. A STRANGE HOSTESS
CHAPTER XVI. A GRUESOME DANCE
CHAPTER XVII. A GROTESQUE TRAGEDY
CHAPTER XVIII. DEAD OR ALIVE?
CHAPTER XIX. THE WHITE LEECH
CHAPTER XX. GONE!—BUT HOW?
CHAPTER XXI. THE FUGITIVE MOTHER
CHAPTER XXII. BULIKA
CHAPTER XXIII. A WOMAN OF BULIKA
CHAPTER XXIV. THE WHITE LEOPARDESS
CHAPTER XXV. THE PRINCESS
CHAPTER XXVI. A BATTLE ROYAL
CHAPTER XXVII. THE SILENT FOUNTAIN
CHAPTER XXVIII. I AM SILENCED
CHAPTER XXIX. THE PERSIAN CAT
CHAPTER XXX. ADAM EXPLAINS
CHAPTER XXXI. THE SEXTON’S OLD HORSE
CHAPTER XXXII. THE LOVERS AND THE BAGS
CHAPTER XXXIII. LONA’S NARRATIVE
CHAPTER XXXIV. PREPARATION
Chapter XXXV. THE LITTLE ONES IN BULIKA
CHAPTER XXXVI. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE SHADOW
CHAPTER XXXVIII. TO THE HOUSE OF BITTERNESS
CHAPTER XXXIX. THAT NIGHT
CHAPTER XL. THE HOUSE OF DEATH
CHAPTER XLI. I AM SENT
CHAPTER XLII. I SLEEP THE SLEEP
CHAPTER XLIII. THE DREAMS THAT CAME
CHAPTER XLIV. THE WAKING
CHAPTER XLV. THE JOURNEY HOME
CHAPTER XLVI. THE CITY
CHAPTER XLVII. THE “ENDLESS ENDING”
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I took a walk on Spaulding’s Farm the other afternoon. I saw the setting sun lighting up the opposite side of a stately pine wood. Its golden rays straggled into the aisles of the wood as into some noble hall. I was impressed as if some ancient and altogether admirable and shining family had settled there in that part of the land called Concord, unknown to me,—to whom the sun was servant,—who had not gone into society in the village,—who had not been called on. I saw their park, their pleasure-ground, beyond through the wood, in Spaulding’s cranberry-meadow. The pines furnished them with gables as they grew. Their house was not obvious to vision; their trees grew through it. I do not know whether I heard the sounds of a suppressed hilarity or not. They seemed to recline on the sunbeams. They have sons and daughters. They are quite well. The farmer’s cart-path, which leads directly through their hall, does not in the least put them out,—as the muddy bottom of a pool is sometimes seen through the reflected skies. They never heard of Spaulding, and do not know that he is their neighbor,—notwithstanding I heard him whistle as he drove his team through the house. Nothing can equal the serenity of their lives. Their coat of arms is simply a lichen. I saw it painted on the pines and oaks. Their attics were in the tops of the trees. They are of no politics. There was no noise of labor. I did not perceive that they were weaving or spinning. Yet I did detect, when the wind lulled and hearing was done away, the finest imaginable sweet musical hum,—as of a distant hive in May, which perchance was the sound of their thinking. They had no idle thoughts, and no one without could see their work, for their industry was not as in knots and excrescences embayed.
But I find it difficult to remember them. They fade irrevocably out of my mind even now while I speak and endeavor to recall them, and recollect myself. It is only after a long and serious effort to recollect my best thoughts that I become again aware of their cohabitancy. If it were not for such families as this, I think I should move out of Concord.
Thoreau: “WALKING.”