how much better will the world ever be for it? Did you not tell me that you had once written a short poem about a shipwreck?'
'Yes, on the loss of the ship Dunbar. She sailed from London, and traversed the ocean in safety; but her captain, in attempting to enter Sydney Harbour one night in August, 1857, made a fatal mistake. The ship was dashed to pieces on the South Head, and all on board, with only one exception, perished.'
We proceeded up the hill, and through the wood beyond it, I taking the lead, as the path was familiar to me. A light wind had arisen, and a number of small white clouds chased each other up the hills from the surface of the Great Lake, which we had left behind us. On reaching an elevated open space, we stood still, and looked back to survey the beautiful scene. I am compelled to pause, as I find it difficult to describe what then occurred. It took place in a moment, like a sudden flash of thought through a poet's brain. A luminous cloud descended towards us as we turned; Julius convulsively seized my arm, his eyes nearly starting out of his head.
'Who is this?' he cried, 'who is this? Is it a dream? Is it true? It is Helen! It is Helen herself, as I live. Yes, Helen—my heroine, my darling! I am ready; wait for me; I am coming! Farewell, Ubertus! I shall be with you in your hour of need.'
And while he spoke he changed. What appeared to be a thick veil of blue gauze fell between him and me. His form assumed the likeness of a luminous cloud, which ascended into the air, and the two clouds mingled together and became one, ascending still higher into the air, and disappearing gradually from my sight.
