"The water is fresh and cooling: would, holy Father, that it could
penetrate to a deeper malady than the ills of flesh; that it could
assuage the fever of the heart, or lave from the wearied mind the dust
which it gathers from the mire and travail of the world."

Now the Hermit testified surprise; but it was slight and momentary. He
gazed upon me more attentively than he had done before, and said, after
a pause,--

"My countryman! and in this spot! It is not often that the English
penetrate into places where no ostentatious celebrity dwells to sate
curiosity and flatter pride. My countryman: it is well, and perhaps
fortunate. Yes," he said, after a second pause, "yes; it were indeed a
boon, had the earth a fountain for the wounds which fester and the
disease which consumes the heart."

"The earth has oblivion, Father, if not a cure."

"It is false!" cried the Hermit, passionately, and starting wildly from
his seat; "the earth has /no/ oblivion. The grave,--is /that/
forgetfulness? No, no: /there is no grave for the soul/! The deeds
pass; the flesh corrupts: but the memory passes not, and withers not.
From age to age, from world to world, through eternity, throughout
creation, it is perpetuated; and immortality,--a curse,--/a hell/!"

Surprised by the vehemence of the Hermit, I was still more startled by
the agonizing and ghastly expression of his face.

"My Father," said I, "pardon me if I have pressed upon a sore. I also
have that within which, did a stranger touch it, would thrill my whole