CAROLINE HELSTONE was just eighteen years old; and at
eighteen the true narrative of life is yet to be commenced.
Before that time, we sit listening to a tale, a marvellous fiction;
delightful sometimes, and sad sometimes; almost' always unreal.
Before that time, our world is heroic; its inhabitants half-divine
or semi-demon; its scenes are dream-scenes: darker woods, and
stranger hills; brighter skies, more dangerous waters; sweeter
flowers, more tempting fruits; wider plains, drearier deserts,
sunnier fields than are found in nature, overspread our enchanted
globe. What a moon we gaze on before that time! How the
trembling of our hearts at her aspect bears witness to its un-
utterable beauty! As to our sun, it is a burning heaven -- the
world of gods.

At that time -- at eighteen, drawing near the confines of illusive,
void dreams, Elf-land lies behind us, the shores of Reality rise in
front. These shores are yet distant: they look so blue, soft, gentle,
we long to reach them. In sunshine we see a greenness beneath the
azure, as of spring meadows; we catch glimpses of silver lines, and
imagine the roll of living waters. Could we but reach this land,
we think to hunger and thirst no more; whereas many a wilder-
ness, and often the flood of Death, or some stream of sorrow as
cold and almost as black as Death, is to be crossed ere true bliss
can be tasted. Every joy that life gives must be earned ere it is
secured; and how hardly earned, those only know who have wrestled
for great prizes. The heart's blood must gem with red beads the
brow of the combatant, before the wreath of victory rustles over it.

At eighteen, we are not aware of this. Hope, when she smiles
on us, and promises happiness tomorrow, is implicitly believed;
-- Love, when he comes wandering like a lost angel to our door,

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