Title: Strange Visitors
 - A series of original papers, embracing philosophy, science, government, religion, poetry, art, fiction, satire, humor, narrative, and prophecy, by the spirits of Irving, Willis, Thackeray, Brontë, Richter, Byron, Humboldt, Hawthorne, Wesley, Browning, and others now dwelling in the spirit world; dictated through a clairvoyant, while in an abnormal or trance state
Author: Horn, Henry J.
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Strange Visitors
 - A series of original papers, embracing philosophy, science, government, religion, poetry, art, fiction, satire, humor, narrative, and prophecy, by the spirits of Irving, Willis, Thackeray, Brontë, Richter, Byron, Humboldt, Hawthorne, Wesley, Browning, and others now dwelling in the spirit world; dictated through a clairvoyant, while in an abnormal or trance state" ***


                            STRANGE VISITORS:

A SERIES OF ORIGINAL PAPERS, EMBRACING PHILOSOPHY, SCIENCE, GOVERNMENT,
RELIGION, POETRY, ART, FICTION, SATIRE, HUMOR, NARRATIVE, AND PROPHECY.

BY THE _SPIRITS OF IRVING, WILLIS, THACKERAY, BRONTE, RICHTER, BYRON,
HUMBOLDT, HAWTHORNE, WESLEY, BROWNING_, AND OTHERS NOW DWELLING IN THE
SPIRIT WORLD

DICTATED THROUGH A CLAIRVOYANT, WHILE IN AN ABNORMAL OR TRANCE STATE.

                                  1871



TABLE OF CONTENTS.

     HENRY J. RAYMOND  _To the New York Public_
      MARGARET FULLER  _Literature in Spirit Life_
           LORD BYRON  _To His Accusers_
   NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE _Apparitions_
    WASHINGTON IRVING  _Visit to Henry Clay_
   NAPOLEON BONAPARTE  _To The French Nation_
      W. M. THACKERAY  _His Post Mortem Experience_
    ARCHBISHOP HUGHES  _Two Natural Religions_
         EDGAR A. POE  _The Lost Soul_
    JEAN PAUL RICHTER  _Invisible Influences_
     CHARLOTTE BRONTE  _Agnes Reef. A Tale_
 ELIZABETH B. BROWNING _To Her Husband_
         ARTEMUS WARD  _In and Out of Purgatory_
     LADY BLESSINGTON  _Distinguished Women_
   PROFESSOR OLMSTEAD  _Locality of the Spirit World_
   ADAH ISAACS MENKEN  _Hold Me Not_
          N.P. WILLIS  _Off-Hand Sketches_
      MARGARET FULLER  _City of Spring Garden_
       GILBERT STUART  _Art Conversation_
       EDWARD EVERETT  _Government_
     FREDERIKA BREMER  _Flight to my Starry Home_
   REV. LYMAN BEECHER  _The Sabbath--Its Uses_
    PROF. GEORGE BUSH  _Life and Marriage in Spirit Life_
  JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH  _Acting by Spirit Influence_
     REV. JOHN WESLEY  _Church of Christ_
         N. P. WILLIS  _A Spirit Revisiting Earth_
     ALLAN CUNNINGHAM  _Alone_
   BARON VON HUMBOLDT  _The Earthquake_
   SIR DAVID BREWSTER  _Naturalness of Spirit Life_
          H.T. BUCKLE  _Mormons_
          W.E. BURTON  _Drama in Spirit Life_
     CHAS. L. ELLIOTT  _Painting in Spirit Life_
    COMEDIAN’S POETRY  _Rollicking Song_
  LADY HESTER STANHOPE _Prophecy_
   PROFESSOR MITCHELL  _The Planets_
  DR. JOHN W. FRANCIS  _Causes of Disease and Insanity_
     ADELAIDE PROCTER  _The Spirit Bride_



INTRODUCTION.

_BY THE EDITOR_.


In placing before the public a work with such novel and extraordinary
demands upon its consideration, a few explanatory words seem
appropriate.

Its title and contents will doubtless at first sight cause a smile of
incredulity, and will be regarded by many as one of the devices which
are sometimes put forward to entrap an unsuspecting public into the
perusal of a sensational hoax.

For a number of years past the community has been surprised with
accounts of most incredible marvels; and from time to time the press
has reported various phenomena in connection with an _unrecognized
force and intelligence,_ as occurring in almost every locality
throughout the habitable globe.

These phenomena are thought by many to be mere illusions, and by some
attributed to peculiar electrical conditions; while others seek their
solution in an abnormal state of the brain; and others still believe
them dependent on an actual intercourse between mortals and those who
have passed beyond the grave.

Having become interested in this mysterious and exciting subject, and
finding the means at hand for testing the various phenomena, I resolved
to undertake a series of experiments, with the hope of exposing a
delusion, if such it were, or perchance, of clearing up a mystery
which, by the magnitude and importance it has already assumed, is
disturbing the foundations of old beliefs and steadily diffusing it’s
theories and doctrines into the very heart of society.

Among other expedients to attain this end (assuming the hypothesis
that spirits of the departed were in a condition to communicate with
mortals), I interrogated, through the instrumentality of a clairvoyant
gifted with the remarkable power of passing at will into an unconscious
or trance state, the spirits of a number of well-known individuals
concerning their views and sentiments in their present state of
existence.

In response to my questions, an intelligent answer was received from
the Countess Ossoli (Margaret Fuller), with the assurance that my
desire was apprehended and would receive the hearty co-operation of
those to whom it was addressed.

The process by which the papers were given was that of dictation
through the clairvoyant while in an abnormal or trance condition and
with her eyes closed. The matter was written in pencil as it fell from
her lips, and subsequently transcribed for the press.

The difficulties attending the transmission of ideas through the medium
of another mind, even under ordinary circumstances, must be apparent
to all, and the unprejudiced reader may readily perceive obstacles to
the literal reproduction of their respective styles and language by the
various contributors.

Yet, notwithstanding the impediments to felicity of expression, I feel
assured that persons at all familiar with the characteristics of the
originals will readily perceive a marked resemblance in style to that
of the authors named.

In the delivery of the articles, their composers would usually assume
or personate their own individual characteristics; thus, Artemus Ward’s
conversation and gestures were exceedingly ludicrous. He was the very
personification of mirth, occasionally going to the wall and humorously
“chalking out” his designs. Archbishop Hughes expressed himself in
a quiet, earnest, and eloquent manner. Lady Blessington was full of
vivacity, and Margaret Fuller was our Presiding Angel; while Booth
would become vehement to an intense degree, and at times would mount
some article of furniture in the room, becoming passionately eloquent,
as if again upon the “mimic stage of life.”

An intelligent public will perceive the mental effort incident upon
the production of a series of articles so unusually varied; embracing
the distinctive qualities of Philosophy, Science, Religion, Political
Economy, Government, Satire, Humor, Poetry, Fiction, Narrative, Art,
Astronomy, etc., etc.; and the query has fitly been advanced,--what
mind, in the exercise of its normal functions,--has furnished a
consecutive number of essays so surprising in novelty, so diverse
in sentiment, so consistent in treatment, and so forcibly original,
as those embraced in this volume? What intellect so versatile as to
reproduce in song and narrative the characteristic styles of so many,
and yet so dissimilar authors?

In designating the locality of the Second Life, frequent repetition of
certain terms, such as spirit world, etc., were unavoidable. For weeks
and months the unseen visitors were punctual to their appointments,
and this novel mode of book-making proceeded steadily in interest and
variety until the volume was completed.

The work is now inscribed to a discriminating public, with a lively
confidence that the advanced intelligence and freedom of the age will
yield it an ingenuous reception.

HENRY J. HORN.

NEW YORK, _October 1st_, 1869.



STRANGE VISITORS.



HENRY J. RAYMOND.

_TO THE NEW YORK PUBLIC_.


I have often thought that if it should ever be my privilege to become
a ghost I would enlighten the poor, benighted denizens of the earth as
to how _I did it_, and give a more definite account of what I should
see, and the transformation that would befall me, than either Benjamin
Franklin or George Washington had been able to do in the jargon that
had been set before me by Spiritualists as coming from those worthies.

“Stuff!” I have exclaimed again and again, after looking over spirit
communications and wondering why a man should become so stilted because
he had lost his avoirdupoise.

The opportunity which I boasted I would not let slip has arrived. The
public must judge of how I avail myself of this ghostly power.

Now and then I was troubled with strange misgivings about the future
life. I had a hope that man might live hereafter, but death was a
solemn fact to me, into whose mystery I did not wish too closely to pry.

“Presentiments,” as the great English novelist remarks, “are strange
things.” That connection with some coming event which one feels like a
shadowy hand softly touching him, is inexplicable to most men.

I remember to have felt several times in my life undefined
foreshadowings of some future which was to befall me; and just previous
to my departure from earth, as has been generally stated in the
journals of the day, I experienced a similar sensation. An awful blank
seemed before me--a great chasm into which I would soon be hurled. This
undefined terror took no positive shape.

After the death of my son I felt like one who stood upon a round ball
which rolled from under him and left him nowhere.

The sudden death of James Harper added another shock to that which
I had already felt. I did not understand then, though I have since
comprehended it, that I was like some great tree, rooted in the ground,
which could not be dragged from the earth in which it was buried until
it had received some sudden blow to loosen its hold and make its grip
less tenacious.

But in the very midst of these feelings I sought the society of
friends, and endeavored around the social board to exhilarate my senses
and drown these undesirable fancies.

Life seemed more secure among friends, but death was not to be dodged.
It caught me unarmed and alone at midnight in the very doorway of my
house.

I had crossed the threshold, and remember trying to find the stairs
and being seized with a dizziness. The place seemed to spin around and
I felt that I was falling. Next, a great weight seemed to press me
down like some horrid nightmare. I endeavored to groan, to cry out and
struggle from under it, but it held me fast. After this I seemed to be
falling backward through a blackness--an inky blackness. It came close
to me, and pressed close upon my lips and my eyes. It smothered me; I
could not breathe.

Then ensued a struggle within me such as Lazarus might have felt when
he endeavored to break through his grave cerements. It was frightful,
that effort for mastery!

I understand it now. It was the soul fighting its way into birth as a
spiritual being, like a child fighting its way out of its mother’s womb.

I remember feeling faint and confused after that, like one who has long
been deprived of food. An unconsciousness stole over me for a moment,
from which I was awakened by a sudden burst of light. I seemed to open
my eyes upon some glorious morning. I felt an arm around me; I turned
and met the smiling face of my son. I thought myself in a dream, and
yet I was filled with awe.

I had a consciousness that some strange transformation had taken place.
My son’s voice murmured in my ear, “Father, go with me now.” As he
spoke, his voice sounded like the vibration of distant bells. When he
touched me a fire seemed to thrill through my veins. I felt like a boy;
a wild, prankish sensation of freedom possessed me. My body lay upon
the ground. I laughed at it; I could have taken it and tossed it in the
air.

“Come, let’s go,” said I; “don’t stay here.”

My chief desire was to get out of the house. Like a boy who must fly
his kite, out I would go. I feared I might be caught and taken back if
I did not hasten, and moved toward the door. The seams of that door,
which I had always thought well joined, seemed now to stand twelve
inches or more apart. Every atom of that wood which had appeared so
solid to me was now more porous than any sponge or honey-comb. Out
we went through the crevice. A party of men were standing upon the
doorsteps. One put forth his hand to grasp mine. I laughed aloud when I
recognized the person as James Harper! Another was Richmond; another,
one of my associates in the editorial corps. I was perfectly amazed,
and set up a hilarious shout, which they echoed in great glee. We
started forth, a convivial party. The atmosphere hung in heavy masses
around the houses, like the morning mists about the base of a mountain.

We did not walk on the ground; the air was solid enough to bear us. I
felt that we were rising above the city. My senses seemed magnified.
The comprehension of all I did was very acute. We kept along the
earth’s atmosphere for quite a distance.

“Let us sail out,” said I, at last.

“We cannot yet; we must wait till we reach the current. If we go
outside of that, we may be lost in the intense cold and the poisonous
gases, or we may be swallowed up in the vortex of some flaming comet,”
answered my wise companions.

The statement looked very reasonable, so I allowed myself to be
guided and we soon found ourselves in a great belt of light of a pale
rose-color, in which we sailed seemingly without any effort, moving
the hands and arms at times and at other times folding them across our
breasts.

As we advanced the channel in which we moved increased in depth and
brilliancy of color, and I grew more and more exhilarated. Finally we
paused and commenced to descend. The air was very luminous, radiating
and scintillating like the flashing of diamonds, and so electric that
the concussion of sound vibrated like the peal from some distant organ.

Looking down through the glittering atmosphere that surrounded me, I
perceived what appeared to be the uplifting peak of a mountain. A halo
of light rested upon its summit, and we seemed drawn toward it with a
gentle force.

This mountain, I was informed, was one of a magnetic chain which belts
the spirit world. In color and material it was like an opal.

I was told that a peculiar sympathy existed between it and the human
spirit. When individuals on earth are in juxtaposition with this
mountain they feel a strange yearning for the spirit home.

Now then the mysterious riddle is solved, thought I; and this must be
the spiritual north pole!

We soon stood upon _terra-firma_, if these translucent rocks could
be called _terra-firma_ which rose in glittering and polished peaks
all around us. They were wonderfully iridescent, so that no bed of
gorgeously-colored flowers could have filled the eye with a greater
variety of tints.

A few steps around a projecting bluff brought us within sight of what
appeared to me a magnificent palace of alabaster. This palace I soon
learned was a hotel, or place of resort for travellers.

In ascending its polished steps I was met by some half dozen persons
whom I had known. You may be sure a wonderful handshaking ensued. We
remained here but a few moments, partook of refreshments, and then
proceeded to the court-yard, where I was told a car awaited to carry us
to our destination.

The car seemed to be a frame-work, apparently of silver wire. We now
comfortably seated ourselves, when two large wings struck out from it
like those of some great condor. We moved rapidly over the acclivity.
This is a new way of crossing the mountains, thought I; I will have to
introduce it in the Sierra Nevada and Colorados.

I inquired how the machine was propelled, and was informed, “Simply by
a chemical arrangement similar to your galvanic battery.”

You may conceive my astonishment when we descended into a park of a
vast city.

“My God!” exclaimed I, “it cannot be that I am in the spirit world!
Why, look at the houses and churches, and temples! What magnificent
buildings!” But I must say the material alone struck me as something
sublime and unearthly. So transparent and rich in color, reflecting
light as if through a veil or mist! “This caps all,” said I, as doctors
and lawyers, artists and authors, whom I had known, stepped up to greet
me, smiling and full of life. “Why, how is this?” “Is this you?” “Where
did you come from?” Questions like these came from all sides. Francis
and Brady, Willis, Morris, and a host of New Yorkers who had slipped
out of sight and almost out of mind, now gathered around me as if by
miracle. I rubbed my eyes in wonder. Spying Brown, I cried out, “Why,
how is this, Brown? It can’t be that I am in heaven! Do you have such
things here? Houses, stores, and works of art on every side?”

“Yes; people must live,” said he, “wherever they be.”

“And are men here the same, with all their faculties?” I asked.

“Yes; why not? Have you any you’d like to lose?”

I shook my head and walked on absorbed in thought. And are all our
paraphernalia for funerals, our solemn black, and our long prayers but
useless ceremonies? Why, according to this, the beliefs of the Chinese,
Hottentot, African, and Indian are nearer the truth than our civilized
creeds!

I find that there are few things in which society in this world so much
differs from that of earth as in its social and political arrangements.

All the great system of living for appearances, and the habit of
self-deception whereby men live outwardly what their secret lives
disavow, are here entirely done away with.

In the first place the marriage relations differ materially from those
of earth, and no false sentiment nor custom, nor religious belief,
holds together as companions those who are dissimilar in their nature.
Neither do men crucify their tastes and feelings from a mistaken idea
of duty.

The miseries and disasters which are attendant on a life on earth they
view as a parent would view the whooping-cough or scarlatina which
afflict the body of his child--as necessary steps toward his growth and
progress from youth to manhood.

A remarkable instance of this came under my own observation. You
remember that the singular and sudden death of Abraham Lincoln was a
matter of surprise to us. We could not see the purpose of an all-wise
Providence in this sudden closing of an eventful career. It was
discussed in every newspaper in the land, and the conclusion was that
the Creator had some special purpose in his removal, and this we all
believed.

But here the enigma is solved.

Standing face to face and walking side by side, as I have done for the
last few days with this man, raised as some suppose for the special
purpose of freeing the slave--a martyr for principle--I find that he
enjoys as a good joke, this martyrdom, and I have also ascertained the
solemn fact that he was removed, not by God, but by spirit politicians,
God’s agents.

And the state of the case is this: the Southern rebels, hot-blooded
and revengeful, who were arriving daily by scores and hundreds, in
the spirit world, finding their cause discomfited and worsted, became
mutinous. They were too raw and new to fall into the harmony of the
spirit life, and they threatened a second war in Heaven; a war which
those young Lucifers would have waged with terrific power.

To quell this disturbance and produce a counteraction, it was necessary
that one whom they looked upon as the great leader of the Northern
cohorts should be withdrawn from the post which he occupied.

A man of calm, dispassionate judgment, not vindictive, who could hold
the reins with a firm hand, yet look with a lenient eye on the follies
which he did not share, was needed in the spirit world, and that man
was Abraham Lincoln.

When those young Southern bloods had conspired with their co-patriot to
his downfall, had instigated and accomplished his assassination, and
when he appeared in their midst, the simple, unaffected, _uncrafty_ man
that he was, a revulsion of feeling immediately took place.

The liberal party in the spirit world, friends to humanity and
progress, could have prevented his removal had they wished; but not
desiring to do so, they prepared his mind by dreams and visions for
what was about to take place.

For a short time in the spirit world he held the position of
Pacificator and chief ruler over that portion of the American, spirit
world represented by the North and South.

But after averting this peril, which would have involved the States in
anarchy and war such as they had not yet experienced, he retired to
private life.

Another instance, proving that the inhabitants of the spirit world,
like their great prototype, the Creator, do not look at immediate
distress, but at the advantages that may accrue therefrom, presents
itself in my removal from the sphere in which I had probably worked out
all that would be useful to humanity.

Like a _chargé d’affaires_ called back to Washington because he can
fill a better post, so I, through the solicitations of relatives and
fellow-citizens who have preceded me to this new world, was called here
for the purpose of editing a journal and assisting in ameliorating the
condition of the inhabitants of the Southern States, and also to use my
influence in the Congress and Senate at Washington toward producing a
better comprehension of their needs.

I have one thing to say to my brother journalist, Horace Greeley, and
that is that the Utopian ideas which have for so many years formed the
principal topic of his radical sheet are here put in operation.

Each one seems desirous of cooperating with his neighbor, and people
of like tastes and feelings associate together and live in vast
communities or cities. They do not settle down to one routine, as they
do with you. The cost of travelling depending chiefly on the will
and energy of the individual, the inhabitants are ever in motion,
ever ready for a change, if wisdom or pleasure should dictate it.
The condition of the common people is vastly improved, and America
has been the chief agent in placing the lower classes in a condition
which adapts them to a higher spiritualized life. I say lower classes,
because under the system of monarchical governments, the peasants and
laborers of Europe have been kept in a state of besotted ignorance,
developing chiefly in the animal propensities, and not fitting
themselves for the higher enjoyments of the spirit life.

Finding that the spirit world was likely to be overrun by this class of
ignorant and superstitions people, its wise rulers have instigated the
legislators of the United States to provide means for the education and
development of these lower classes of society.

It is only by assimilating with those of a higher intellectual
development that the ignorant become enlightened, and America, in
throwing down all barriers to political and social advancement, has
been the chief instrument of lifting the great mass of humanity to
a position of power in the spirit world; still there are crowds of
beings, ignorant and superstitious, who enter the spirit world, and
their intellects can only be unfolded by the labor and guidance of some
master mind.

I was surprised to find that physical labor here, as on earth, was
one of the chief means employed to assist in mental growth; and I
found swarms of English, Irish, and German people happily at work,
cultivating the land and erecting houses for themselves and others, and
assisting in the great machinery of life, which here, as in the other
world, revolves its constant round.

I had nearly forgotten to mention that since leaving your world I
returned on one occasion to attend a _séance_, as it is termed, for
physical manifestations, and had the pleasure of seeing how our
chemists combine from the elements the semblance of the human form. I
had been interested when on earth in an experiment recently made by
scientific men, whereby, through a peculiar combination of metals,
a flame is caused to assume the shapes of flowers, leaves, fishes,
and reptiles, apparently developed from the air, and I discovered an
intelligent solution of the remarkable experiment in the manifestations
I witnessed at this _séance_.

It appears that every particle in nature throws off a gaseous
emanation, partaking of its particular shape. These gaseous particles
are not discernible with the material eye, excepting when by chance
they coalesce, and then a phosphorescent light ensues, which renders
them apparent.

A similar effect to this is seen in electricity, which lies latent and
viewless till by a sudden coalescing of its parts it manifests itself
in zigzag lines and flashes of light which illuminate the heavens.

Now certain material bodies have the power of drawing those atoms in
close affinity, and when they are thus drawn, the shapes alluded to are
clearly discernible by the human eye.

I discovered another fact, and that is that every human being emits a
light, and in the case of those called “mediums,” it is intense like
the Drummond light, and a spirit standing in its rays will become
visible to mortal sight.

These experiments interested me highly, as they had been heretofore
inexplicable to my mind.

_Apropos_ of the topics of to-day, I must here relate what I have heard
of the “Lord Byron scandal,” which is creating so marked a sensation
at present. I am told by Byron and others that Lady Byron, recently
arriving in the spirit world and finding matters very different from
what she had expected, and that she was received nowhere as the wife of
Lord Byron (who having resided there some thirty years had formed a new
and happy alliance), was stung with jealousy and vexation and hastened
to inspire Mrs. Stowe to repeat the story which had become a matter of
faith with her, hoping thereby to inflict a punishment on Byron, who
ignored his relation to her.

If she had waited until she had resided a little longer in spirit life
she would not have pursued so foolish a course. But I must bring this
long letter to a close, assuring my friends that I have the prospect of
as active a life before me as the one I have just closed on earth.



MARGARET FULLER.

_LITERATURE IN SPIRIT LIFE_.


To a mind familiar with the literature of the ancient Greeks and
Romans, which has studied the Scandinavian Edda, and is intimate with
the more modern German, French, and English authors, the literature of
the spirit world opens up a mine of interminable wealth.

The libraries in this world are vast catacombs or repositories of
buried knowledge. Here are found histories of decayed races, dynasties,
and nations which have vanished from earth, leaving scarce a monument
of their progress in art, science, and mental culture. In these
libraries the student of history will find the exploits of ancient
peoples recorded, and a description of their cities, with the temples
and towers which they built and the colossal images which they created.

I own to the surprise which I experienced when I discovered that
printed books were a part of the treasures of the spirit world. But
the scholar will rejoice as I did to find the literary productions of
remotest ages garnered in the spacious halls of science that adorn our
cities.

It is a principle of being--a condition of immortality--as inseparable
from spirit existence as from earth life, that thought should express
itself in external forms. Even the Great Spirit, the Creator of all,
gives shape to his thoughts in the formation of trees, flowers, men,
beasts, and myriad worlds with their constant motion, their sound and
song.

It has been aptly said that the “stars are the poetry of God.” He, the
Great Spirit of all, writes his thoughts legibly; and so man, like his
originator, whether living in the natural body or existing as a spirit,
gives outward shape to his ideas; hence books become a necessity of
spirit existence, and the writers from earth have still a desire to
perpetuate their thoughts.

Oral communication is too evanescent, and therefore the dear old books
still find a place in the spheres.

There are various modes of making these volumes, and the writer may
become his own printer.

Some authors prefer to dictate, and a little instrument marks off the
variations of sound which make the word, and thus, as he speaks, the
word is impressed on the sheet.

Others, if the thought be clear and distinct enough, and the will
sufficiently under abeyance, act through the mind upon a conductor,
which dots down the thought in a manner somewhat similar to telegraphic
printing.

The material used to receive the impression is of a soft, vellum-like
nature, which can be folded up in any manner without destroying its
form; it is very light and thin, but opaque, like the creamy petals of
a lily.

The phonetic alphabet is used extensively, though we have many books
printed in the mode usually adopted on earth.

All nature is constantly changing and progressing. The bards who sang
upon the earth centuries ago--Homer, Virgil, the Greek and Roman, the
Celtic and Saxon writers of old--have passed beyond the spirit sphere
which I inhabit to a spirit planet still more refined, and have left
behind only the records of their strange experience.

The eighteenth century cannot walk side by side with the third or
fourth century more readily in the spirit world than on earth.

The character of the spirit literature of the present day is
essentially scientific and explorative. We have in our world, as you
have in yours, intrepid travellers--learned men, who make voyages to
almost inaccessible planets--and they return even as those of earth,
with sketches and graphic outlines of the strange sights they have
witnessed; and those less venturesome who remain at home are as anxious
as your citizens might be to hear accounts of wonderful regions that
have been visited. And such books of travel are sought eagerly.

We have but few works on theology; the nature and essence of God is
discussed with us, but not so elaborately as with you.

Spirits who have passed into a second life have so nearly approached
the mystery of a Divine Being that they do not desire to debate the
subject.

A large proportion of our writers are devoted to what you would here
term transcendental thought, a kind of literature which lies between
poetry and music, which awakens a feeling of ecstasy, and gives, as it
were, wings to the soul.

The poets who sang upon earth during the last century, of whom Shelly,
Keats, and Byron are an English type, and Halleck, Pierrepont, Dana,
and Willis the American representatives, are among the most inspired
and far-reaching of our present writers of poetry and song.

Our literature has one great advantage over that of earth, in that our
separate nationalities become merged in one grand unit. We do not need
translators, as we have adopted a universal written language. There
are some writers who still retain, as I have said, the modes adopted
on earth, but those who have been resident any length of time in the
spirit sphere employ the plan of writing by signs, which are understood
and acknowledged by every nationality.

I should like, in closing, to introduce an extract from an old volume
which I found in a library in the city of Spring Garden.

It was written by Addison during his sojourn in that city, in the
year 1720, and is in the form of a letter, supposed to be written to
a friend on earth. In it he essays to portray the expansion of mind
he has experienced in his new home through the magnetic influence of
thought language:

“Behold the far off luminary suspended millions and billions and
trillions of miles in space; then turn the eye yonder and see that
infinitesimal point of vegetation, earth--a speck, countless multitudes
of which heaped and piled together would form but a point compared with
that majestic sun!

“Yet behold it move and expand beneath the long fibrous rays which that
effulgent orb sends down through so many billions of miles to the place
of its minute existence. Even as that poor little existence shoots out
its fibres to meet those rays which have travelled such great lengths,
so a spirit in the spheres feels the quickening, effulgent rays thrown
out by the brain of some prophet or poet existing millions and billions
and trillions of miles away on some distant spirit planet, and his
thought expands and enlarges beneath the warming action of that far-off
brain, until it assumes a shape and form which its own emulation never
prophesied.”



BYRON.

_TO HIS ACCUSERS_.


I.

  My soul is sick of calumny and lies:
  Men gloat on evil--even woman’s hand
  Will dabble in the mire, nor heed the cries
  Of the poor victim whom she seeks to brand
  In thy sweet name, Religion, through the land!
  Like the keen tempest she doth strip her prey,
  Tossing him bare and wrecked upon the strand,
  While vaunting her misdeeds before the day,
Bearing a monument which crumbles like the clay.

II.

  My sister, have I lived to see thy name
  Dishonored? Thou, who wast my pride, my stay;
  Shall Jealousy and Fraud thy love defame
  And I be dumb? Just Heaven, let a ray
  From thy majestic light illume earth’s clay,[A]
  That through her I may scorch the slander vile,
  And light throughout the land a torch to-day,
  Which shall reveal how false and full of guile
Are they who seek thy name, Augusta, to defile.

[Footnote A: The Clairvoyant.]

III.

  She who has borne my title and my name,
  In deeds fraternal saw some monster crime;
  To her base level sought my heart to tame,
  Made mock of each aspiring thought sublime,
  And sought to bury me beneath the slime
  Of her imaginings. All--all are gone
  Who could defend me. From the grave of time
  I am unearth’d--by sland’rous miscreants torn,
And rise to feel again the ills I once have borne.

IV.

  Is this a Christian deed, to flaunt a vice,
  And with another’s failings gild your own?
  To hearken to the whisperings and device
  Of old age, selfish, to suspicion grown?
  To misconstrue each friendly look--each tone--
  And out of natural love create vile lust?
  Must brother’s heart his very kin disown,
  While rudest hand disturbs her mouldering dust?
Is this a Christian deed? Shall mankind call it just?

V.

  But let that pass. I hear a nation’s voice
  Raised to defend the absent, wronged child;
  My hopes and aims were high, albeit my choice
  Was fixed on one who felt not for my wild
  And wayward nature; one who never smiled
  On imperfection. From my home of light
  Unscathed, I see life’s blackening billows piled,
  Ready to sweep the daring soul from sight,
Sinking his name and memory in darkest night.

VI.

  I rise again above the woes of earth,
  Like unchained bird, seeking my native air.
  Men seldom see their fellow-creatures’ worth,
  But blot sweet nature’s page, however fair.
  Away, my soul, and seek thy nobler state,
  Where loving angels breathe their softest prayer,
  Where sweetest seraphs for thy coming wait,
And ne’er suspicion’s breath can pass the Golden Gate.



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

_APPARITIONS_.


Returning one evening from a visit to a friend on earth, I was impelled
to take a route with which I was unfamiliar. It led me far beyond
the habitations of the city, into an open country whose surface was
diversified by sloping hills and broad valleys.

The sun was quite low in the horizon, and dark purple clouds, gathering
in the west, indicated an approaching storm. Anxious to reach my
spirit-home before such an event, I was nevertheless compelled to keep
within the earth’s atmosphere.

The aspect of the country became more uneven as I advanced, and the
disappearing sun threw out the hills in cold blue relief against the
evening sky. One peak to the northward stood high and isolated from
the surrounding hills, and was crowned by a spacious dwelling house;
the high peaked roof and dark gloomy color of its exterior comported
strangely with the landscape.

To this building an unseen influence drew me. As I approached nearer
I discovered the figure of a man walking with restless step upon
the piazza which surrounded the dwelling. At times he would suspend
his walk, and crouch, shuddering as with fear, against the shadowed
balustrade. His face was of ashy paleness, and his hair, black as
night, fell in neglected masses around his head. His eyes were bright
and glassy, and their expression frightful to look upon.

Unconscious of my proximity, he arose from his crouching position,
stood for a moment irresolute, and then walked up to the heavy oaken,
door and knocked.

Presently the door was opened by a lady; she looked out, but could see
no one. “It must have been the wind,” said she, shuddering slightly,
and drawing her shawl closely around her, was about to close the door.
But before she could accomplish her purpose the unseen guest had
entered, with myself following closely behind, hoping to give comfort
where it appeared most sorely needed.

Up a broad staircase he ascended and at a chamber door he paused--then
entered. I followed. His presence seemed to cause the very furniture to
shake and rattle.

“Here,” thought I, “I will solve the enigma. Here, without doubt, has
occurred some grand disturbance of nature. The walls of this apartment,
its casements, its decorations, have been witness to some fell crime.
The spectre of evil impresses itself upon matter.”

While reflecting upon this wonderful law, which all my life I had
perceived dimly, I observed with care the evidently unhappy man. A
bedstead of rich workmanship occupied one side of the apartment.
Rushing toward it he burst forth in a cry of frenzy, swaying his hands
fearfully and ejaculating and groaning in most piteous accents.

At this juncture steps were heard outside ascending the stairs, and
several members of the household entered, bearing lights. They looked
about the room, at first timidly; then, gathering courage, peered under
the bed, opened closets, and scrutinized every nook and corner of the
apartment. Foiled in their efforts to discover the inmate they turned
to each other with amazement.

“I am positive the sounds came from this room,” said one. “There is no
one to be seen here,” replied another; “what can it mean?”

The culprit stood in the corner, gesticulating violently, but they with
their mortal eyes could not see him. They passed close to him, but
their lighted candles could not reveal the shadowless!

Having satisfied themselves that the room was tenantless, they
departed. Then I approached the unhappy wretch:

“Friend,” said I, “let me aid you. Unburden your woo to me; I too have
suffered and am not without sin.”

Casting his eyes upon me now for the first time, the man scowled with
dogged sullenness, and said:

“I want no help.”

“Nay,” said I, “your looks belie your words; come, go with me to my
quiet cottage; there you shall refresh yourself; you shall sleep
to-night in peace.”

“Peace!” he repeated scornfully. “I know no peace; nor can I leave this
spot till every eye beholds the horrid deed that I committed here.”

“Friend,” said I, “tell me the nature of your crime; reveal to me your
secret and your heart will be lighter for it.”

“Ha! ha!” he answered, his voice dying away in a low wail. “Look upon
that wall opposite the bed; it will speak better than I can.” I looked,
and beheld a faint photograph or impression of the couch, with its
handsome drapery. Upon it reclined the figure of a female, and bending
over her appeared the form of a man, whose livid face and black,
disordered hair I recognized as an unmistakable reflection of the
unfortunate man before me.

“You see that ‘the very stones cry out against me,’” said he. “Every
night for two years have I enacted that same scene, and I am held by
some unseen, influence to this baneful spot.”

“Tell me your story,” said I; “hide nothing--I am your friend.”

He ran his thin fingers through his tangled hair, and with a voice
husky with emotion answered:

“I will tell you. Some years ago, when a young man, haughty and
passionate, I had the misfortune to love a girl whose youth and beauty
proved my bane, and in a moment of recklessness I married her. In her
nature were mingled the qualities of the serpent and the dove. She was
my inferior, and I could not own her outwardly nor inwardly as my wife;
but, unhappily for the peace of both, I could not rid myself of her. I
gave her money, but it availed not; she was ignorant, and persisted in
following me.” Here the man looked around with a nervous air, as if he
expected to see the unwelcome face peering at him through the shadows.

“To avoid her,” he continued, “I secretly purchased this dwelling,
remote from the place of her abode. There I lived for a brief time,
happy; a new life with loftier purposes dawned upon me; I formed
another attachment--a higher and more noble one.

“One evening as I was walking upon the balcony thinking of my new-found
joys, a figure came creeping up through the shrubbery towards me. To my
amazement it proved to be the girl who claimed me.

“When I saw her, rage entered my heart, and I felt as if I could
annihilate her. But, suppressing all show of feeling, I went with her
into the house, and appointed her this room for the night. A demoniac
idea had presented itself to my mind; it came unsought, but under the
excitement of the moment it seemed like a good angel of deliverance.

“To further this idea, I lay down beside her. Presently she fell into
a light slumber. At first a slight expression of pleasure played upon
her lips, but ere long the fatigue of her journey overcame her, and she
slept heavily.

“Then,” said he, his countenance assuming a convulsive and ghastly
aspect, “I arose on tiptoe, and collecting the heavy comforters and
large downy pillows of the bed, I deliberately piled them on her one
upon the other, and pressing them down with all my gathered force, I
stifled her in her sleep!

“No cry, no groan from my victim betrayed the unhallowed deed, and
before the first dawn of day I was driving furiously over the road to
the river’s bank, from which into the watery depth below I threw this
millstone of my life.

“When I drove back the morning had dawned. The daylight seemed to pry
into the secrets of the past night. I would fain shun it--the garish
light disturbed me. The morning sun, which had ever been my delight,
seemed now a mocking imp of curiosity; the house and grounds looked
bare and desolate; a blight had fallen upon their former comeliness.

“A strange fascination again drew me into the chamber which had been
the scene of my crime. When there I re-enacted the last night’s work.
The bed and furniture seemed to come toward me and taunt me with the
fell crime I had committed. ‘I was justified in the act,’ said I to
these dumb accusers, as though they had been, living witnesses. ‘She
was the bane of my existence.’ And with cunning precision I arranged
the disordered room, smoothed the pillows, and levelled the coverlet.
‘The dead cannot speak,’ said I. ‘This thing is hidden.’

“After this performance I went forth, hoping by a sharp walk to drown
the memory of the momentary deed. I passed through the garden and
reached the sloping hill. There, where the low fence joined the open
road, I was met by the lady whom I loved. She was taking the morning
air, and with her smiling face seemed drinking in its balmy freshness.

“‘You look ill,’ said she, with a pitying glance. ‘See what I have
brought for you,’ and she held forth a newly-plucked bouquet of flowers.

“I took the proffered blossoms hurriedly, dreading to meet her clear
eye, which I felt must surely read my guilt. Burying the flowers in my
breast, and with an effort to smile that sickened me, I bowed low to
the ground and hurried on.

“When beyond her sight I drew the nosegay from its hiding place--it was
withered as if scorched by a burning heat! Upon looking closer at this
strange phenomena, I beheld, to my horror, in dim outline, the face of
the murdered! Whence came the impression? Had my riotous heart burnt
the secret upon those blushing petals?

“Frantically I tore open my shirt, when lo! upon my breast I beheld
imprinted a picture of the direful deed--seared in by rays more potent
than the sun’s--photographed there, as if by the lightning’s fierce
stroke!

“Presently a band of children on their way to school overtook me, and
began to whisper to each other as they passed. I saw that they looked
at me with suspicion in their eyes. ‘They too can see the brand,’
thought I; ‘they are mouthing about it now.’

“Urged to desperation, I plunged into a thicket near by. Amid a group
of trees in its centre, one lifted itself higher and straighter than
its companions. Upon its topmost branch, as I chanced to lift my eyes,
I beheld to my terror the woman whom I had sent into eternity, looking
down upon me with scoffs and grimaces!

“The ghostly apparition wrought me to frenzy. In hot haste I climbed
the tree. Its straight, smooth sides, under ordinary circumstances
would have proved a barrier to my efforts, but in my excitement they
formed no obstacle. Reaching the top, I endeavored to grasp her.
Stretching out my arms and clasping frantically the air, I fell dead to
the ground.

“Thus was I born into the spirit world. The idea that last possessed me
on earth, first possessed me in the spirit life.

“No mortal man can describe the horror I experienced on finding myself
in the midst of a boundless space, face to face with mine enemy. Her
narrow intellect and strong animal nature seemed to have expanded,
even as I have seen the face of a child expand from pleasing infancy
into idiotic youth. This animal part of her immortality roused my
ire--struck some savage chord in my nature--and I rose up like a wild
beast to attack her; but the creature laughed and jeered at my vain
efforts. She led me thus, in fruitless pursuit, further and further
into space; inciting me on by her taunts and ringing laugh, until I
found myself in a dark and noisome pit, when she suddenly vanished.

“Ignorant of the peculiarities of spirit condition, I could not grope
my way out of this place, which appeared to me a very hell. I wandered
in this gloomy labyrinth, breathing the foul air, and uttering fearful
cries which struck my ears with anguish. Black, threatening shapes
appeared to stand in the intricate windings of that gloomy cavern,
ready to seize me if I dared to essay my escape. When my agony had
reached its utmost bounds of endurance, I felt myself growing strangely
light, and like some thin vapor I ascended to the mouth of the pit and
made my exit into the outer air.

“The place I then discovered to be merely a cavern or deserted mine,
but to my unhappy condition of mind it had appeared as the home of the
damned.

“Out into space again, I saw afar off, as across the continent, the
dwelling where I had passed the last days of my eventful life. A
current of air like the shock from an electric wire carried me back to
the spot.

“Returned to the scene of my crime, I became possessed with the desire
to expose to view the deed I had committed, and to reveal my villany
to the community. For two weary years I have hovered around this place
for that purpose; but I have failed hitherto, as you have seen me fail
to-night.”

As he finished his narrative I observed he seemed about to relax into
a morbid condition again. To prevent this, I seized him kindly by the
shoulder and exclaimed, “Friend, you must come with me. Your life,
your future welfare is imperiled. You are like one shut up in a vault,
breathing his own exhalations. You do not understand the science of
mind.”

“The science of mind?” said he. “What have I to do with that? ’Tis the
curse of Cain resting upon me. I cannot undo the evil that I have done.
I am an outcast!”

“The wrong you have done,” said I, “becomes doubly, trebly magnified
by thus living it over day by day. You have committed a crime. Do you
wish to perpetuate that crime? You pursue the very course to make it
permanent and enduring. Mind acts upon matter and matter reacts upon
mind. You have made the house a partner to the deed you have committed
by constantly associating it with the act. You have tainted its walls
and poisoned it within and without.

“It becomes sentient and reacts upon you. It becomes a magnet, a
loadstone to draw you. Your constant habit of associating it in your
mind with the past, creates around it an atmosphere which is a part of
your being and welds you to it, so that you, the house, and the deed,
become one mighty monster, inseparable. The idea that you can expiate
the deed by this self-torture is vain. You can neither confer good upon
yourself nor your victim. Leave off and follow me.”

These last words seemed to have the desired effect, for he raised his
eyes with a sad smile, placed his hand in mine, and said:

“I will go with you.”

Happy that my efforts proved availing, I hurried on in a joyous mood,
soon rising above the earth and bearing my companion to my spirit home.

The pure air of the fragrant fields revived him, and by the time we
arrived at my own garden-home he seemed born into a new life.

I set him down under my arbor, now dripping with golden fruits,
and having refreshed him with cordial (angels’ food), I called his
attention to the beauties around us; the birds, the flowers, and the
luxurious growth of nature, which shed such abundance around my home.

“See,” said I, “how nature works. If the roots of the tree meet with
obstacles they start off in another direction. They do not wind and
wind themselves around one spot. If they did death would ensue.

“In every man’s life there are deeds to be regretted--wrongs which he
would gladly undo--but painful imaginings and fruitless remorse will
not set them right. Only by being actively engaged in some nobler
direction can atonement be made.

“This woman, whom you have injured, is in magnetic rapport with you;
and while you are in this moody, self-denunciatory frame of mind, your
restless, unhappy condition acts upon her, preventing her from becoming
contented and happy; then her state reacts back upon you, and thus an
evil equilibrium is maintained.”

“I see my error,” he exclaimed. “Tell me what to do and I will do it.”

It was arranged that he should remain with me. We worked together; he
became happy and his mind no longer reverted to the past, but active
and healthful employment engaged his hours.

When he had recovered sufficiently I took him to see his former
companion. He found her in a pleasant home, looking buoyant and happy.
All that was demoniac had vanished from her face. Surprised, he burst
into tears as he beheld her. “Weep not,” said she, “for I am happy now.
The past is forgotten.”

They compared notes, and found that peace had entered into her soul
when he had obliterated the past from his memory and commenced his
labors in a new life.

Thus we see that the evil passions and attributes of one nature may
awaken and kindle like passions in another, which can only be subdued
by letting them pass unnoticed, and also by arousing the higher
faculties into activity.



WASHINGTON IRVING.

_VISIT TO HENRY CLAY_.


Having recovered my health after a sojourn of two weeks amid the
charming scenery of Mount Rosalia, or the “Rose-colored Mount,” I set
forth one morning, accompanied by a competent guide, to visit the home
of my friend, Henry Clay. The morning was uncommonly fine, even for the
sweet Land of the Blest, and the fragrance from the roses blooming upon
the hill-side was fairly intoxicating.

Our phaeton was a small, white, swan-shaped carriage, ornamented with
golden designs, and propelled by a galvanic battery in the graceful
swan-head, which at my request took the place of the ordinary steed.

This was, to me, an exceedingly novel mode of travel, which my short
sojourn in the spirit world had prevented me from before enjoying.

We glided over the electric ground with the speed of lightning and
smooth harmony of music. The road over which we rolled was white and
lustrous as parian marble, and adorned on either side with most rare
and beautiful forms of foliage; ever and anon we passed gay cavalcades
and bands of spirits, who were evidently, from their festal garments,
and the bright emanations which they diffused through the air, bound
for some harmonial gathering on one of the numerous islands which dot
the sparkling river Washingtonia, so named after George Washington.

The distance from the point whence I started, according to earth’s
computation, was over one hundred miles; but though I desired my guide
to move onward as slowly as possible, that I might enjoy the prospect
before me, we reached our destination in less than a quarter of an hour!

I had received a special invitation from Henry Clay to visit him on
this occasion, as he had called together some choice friends to give
me welcome; yet, although I knew I was expected, my surprise cannot
be described upon beholding the air filled with bevies of beautiful
ladies, like radiant birds, approaching, with the sound of music and
flutter of flowers, to receive me. Thus surrounded and escorted, I was
borne to the noble palace (for such it may be justly termed) of Henry
Clay.

The structure is of white alabaster, faced with a pale yellow
semi-transparent stone, which glistened most gorgeously. The form of
the building is unlike any order of architecture with which I had
been acquainted. The avenue by which it was approached was decorated
alternately with statues of representative Americans, and a peculiar
flowering tree, whose green leaves and yellow blossoms, of gossamer
texture, resembled the fine mist of a summer morning. Terminating,
this avenue was the main entrance, surmounted by the grand dome of
the edifice. In the rear of this rotunda, extending on either side,
appeared the main building, rising, turret on turret, like a stupendous
mountain of alabaster beaming as with soft moonlight in the clear
summer air.

We entered by ascending a staircase composed of twelve broad steps.
And here let me pause, before recounting my interview with the
celebrated statesman, to describe the main hall, whose magnificence I,
upon entering, hastily surveyed, but which I afterward studied more
completely. The floor of this hall was formed of delicate cerulean
blue gems. From its centre sprang, like a fountain, a most wonderful
representation of a flowering plant resembling the lotus, composed
of precious and brilliant stones. The green leaves forming the base
were of transparent emerald, and the white lily which surmounted
the stem blossomed out clearer than any crystal. The yellow centre,
corresponding to the pistils, formed a divan. This beautiful ornament
was intended for the desk of the orator. The dome, which was several
hundred feet high, was open to the summer sky, and arranged in tiers
graduated one above the other. The lower tier was filled with paintings
indicating the progress of the United States of America. Surmounting
this was a gallery of small compartments, each hung with silver
and gold gauze drapery, and similar in construction to the boxes
of a theatre; these opened into halls or alleys leading to private
apartments connecting with the main building. Above these boxes were
placed artistically-carved animals, representing the native beasts of
America. Above these again, appeared groups in marble of the fruits of
the country.

No sooner had I entered the building which I have been describing, than
a peculiar rushing sound like distant music reached my ear; on lifting
my eyes in the direction of the sound, I beheld descending through
the air the majestic form of Henry Clay. He approached with extended
hand and fascinating smile to receive me. How like and yet how unlike
the famous man I had known on earth! The gray hair of age had given
place to the abundant glossy locks of youth. The intellectual eye
beamed with a new life and his whole person sent forth an effulgence
most attractive. Those of my readers who knew him on earth will well
remember the peculiar fascination of his sphere, but they can form from
the remembrance but a slight idea of the attractive aura he sheds forth
in this existence. I immediately felt myself drawn by an invisible
power toward him. He grasped my hand with the frank cordiality and
grace of former days, and leading me thus, we arose together and,
passing through one of the arched compartments of the upper tier,
entered another portion of the building. As we moved on I seemed to
live portions of my earthly life, long past. The gorgeous and fantastic
architecture which everywhere met my eye reminded me of the halls of
the Alhambra. Swiftly passing, we emerged through a spacious arch upon
an open arbor, where were congregated the priests whom I had been
invited to meet. I started back with a shock of delight when I beheld,
in the centre of the group, the immortal figure of George Washington.
I knew him instantly, partly from the likenesses which had been extant
on earth, and partly from the noble spirit which emanated like a sun
from his person. The group parted as we entered and I immediately felt,
resting upon my shoulder like a benediction, the soft, firm hand of the
Father of his Country. “Washington!” I exclaimed, fervidly grasping his
hand. “At length we have met!” he responded, and a smile of ineffable
joy lighted his countenance. He then spoke of the many changes through
which the United States had passed since his removal to the spirit
land. I was surprised at the extent of knowledge he displayed. Not the
slightest variation in the scale of political economy had escaped his
notice. He expressed himself pleased especially at the great progress
and development of the people within the last twenty years. He alluded
to their rapid march through the western territories; the founding
of new and important States; the development of the agricultural
and mineral resources of countries supposed to be almost valueless;
of the invention and construction of machinery adapted to the wants
and necessities of those new and rapidly-increasing States. “This
marvellous growth is owing to their being essentially a mediumistic
people--is it not so?” said he, smiling and turning to the assembled
guests. “Yes, yes!” I heard repeated on all sides. On this commenced a
general conversation. I listened as one in a dream. Around me I beheld
the faces and forms of the heroes of past history, each bearing the
shape and semblance of humanity, though removed from earth millions of
miles into space. One and all emitted, like stars, their own peculiar
luminous aura. Collected in motley groups were Benjamin Franklin, John
Hancock, William Penn, Old General Jackson, John Jacob Astor, De Witt
Clinton, and many of the old Knickerbocker residents of New York; with
Sir Robert Peel, Lord Brougham, the Duke of Wellington, Hunt, Keats,
Byron, Scott, Cowper, Hume, Goethe, De Stael, Mrs. Hemans, and many
others.

“The people of America have progressed to an astonishing degree,” said
a musical voice at my left. “We must initiate Irving into the means by
which we impart knowledge to the mediumistic nation through the Cabinet
at Washington.”

“Certainly,” responded Henry Clay. “Let all formalities cease. We will
partake of refreshments, and then Franklin will make him acquainted
with the wonderful aids to science and humanity with which he has
supplied my residence.”

As he ceased speaking, a shower of sound, like the music from the
ringing of innumerable crystal bells, filled the air. Accompanying
this, and apparently descending from the ceiling, a soft light of
aromatic odor diffused itself through the apartment. This was followed
by the appearance of a shining disk of amber and pearl, revolving
rapidly in its descent till it reached the congregated party. This
magic circle (which Thomas Hood, who was present, facetiously termed
the “wheel of fortune”) was supplied with refreshments truly supernal.
Here were fruits of most brilliant dyes; some of soft, pulpy flesh,
and others of the consistency of honey; some more transparent than the
diamonds of earth; others substantial, seemingly intended to supply the
demands of hunger. Here were confections resembling foam and cloud,
whose very taste was elysium. The guests ate and chatted vivaciously. I
received much information concerning the various products of this great
land which were displayed upon the table. The most luscious fruits,
I considered, both in flavor and quality, were those produced on an
island in the spirit land corresponding to your island of Cuba, which
was under the protection of a band of spirits called the “Good Sisters.”

The company having regaled themselves at the table, arose and divided
into groups, laughing and chatting like ordinary mortals. I felt
immediately attracted to a cluster of which Benjamin Franklin was
the magnetic centre. I reminded him of the duties imposed on him by
our host, and told him playfully that I desired to investigate the
mysteries of this wonderful palace. He cordially acquiesced, and, in
company with a few friends, we commenced our explorations. I inquired
as to the construction of the table from which we had just arisen,
so superior to the cumbersome ones of earth. “It is a very simple
contrivance,” he smilingly remarked. “You observe inserted in these
twisted columns, ornamented with leaves, which support the ceiling,
an electric wire, similar to that of a telegraph. From each of these
central columns, this wire connects with the upper gallery. Here,” said
he, pointing to one of the leafy ornaments, “you perceive the means
of communicating. Unobserved by you, our gracious host touched one of
these springs which are connected with the crystal bells, and announced
to his servants his desire for refreshments.” “Servants!” exclaimed I.
“How singular! I little supposed, from the religious teachings I had
received, that there would be menials in heaven!”

“Thee has a poor memory,” remarked William Penn, with a bright smile,
“Did not the Bible teach thee that there was an upper and a lower seat?
These servants are composed mostly of those who were held in slavery on
earth and who desire to receive instruction that they may progress in
the spheres. They are willing assistants; giving, that they may receive
in return. If thee dislike the term ‘servant,’ thee may use the term
‘friend,’ for they are friends and co-workers. Through those doors in
the gallery they bring the refreshments which they gather from the
hanging gardens without, where they live like the Peries of the East.
The luxury of the princes of earth cannot compare with the life of
enjoyment and freedom led by those whom I have termed ‘servants.’”

I here took the opportunity to ask Franklin if it was necessary,
in communicating with absent individuals, to use those external
appliances? “Not always; thought can commune with thought if upon the
same plane; but a mind like that of our great statesman cannot readily
communicate with one whose mind on earth never rose above the domestic
affairs of life. In such cases, external means are necessary.”

“Come,” said he, turning; “I will show you something more remarkable
than this.” So saying, he led me through an open door into one of the
spacious gardens which grace the palace on either side. We walked but
a few moments, arm in arm, over a soft velvet like lawn, of the color
of a delicate violet. Exquisite tints everywhere met my eye. The air
was like wine, and so luscious and entrancing were the surroundings
that I felt inclined to tarry, but my sage guide, calling my attention
to the majestic dome towering in the air, desired me to exert my will
to ascend. I did so, and immediately felt myself rising as if pressed
up by some elastic substance, until I reached the top. The dome, which
appeared to be composed of glass, I perceived, as I approached, was
covered with a thin web resembling that of a spider. The apex of this
dome was surmounted by a globe representing the planet earth, with its
continents and seas. Openings corresponding to the different continents
admitted persons into the globe. We entered that corresponding to
the continent of North America. Each of these entrances, I was told,
was particularly adapted to the admission of the inhabitants of the
different localities they represented. On looking down I beheld the
apartment I had first entered. It was no longer vacant--each gallery
was filled with spectators. On the lily-shaped rostrum stood Henry
Clay and George Washington--Washington speaking to the people. “You
observe,” said my guide, “a secondary stem from that lily branches
off and extends to this point. It appears to you a mere ornament, but
it transmits the thoughts and words of the speaker to the city of
Washington. Other branches, as you notice, lead in other directions. If
the speaker desires his thoughts to be transmitted to any given point,
he leans toward the stem leading to that point. This silken web which
you have admired, is a sensitive electric telegraph. It is composed of
the elements of mind; in the world you have lately inhabited it would
be intangible, but it has a subtle connection with the human brain,
and spirit thoughts directed through it go with the promptness of
electricity to their destination. Thought is electric, but its power
of transmitting itself is, like that of the human voice, limited;
the voice requires the artificial assistance of a speaking-trumpet
to throw its sound beyond the ordinary distance; thought requires a
similar artificial conductor. You remember,” said Franklin, “in my
early experiments with the kite and key, I could not obtain the spark
until I had established the necessary attraction, although the air
was filled with the electric current. So of the thought-electricity,
which is constantly flowing; we have to apply means to concentrate it
and give it form and expression. On earth, word and gesture are media
for thought, but the savans have not yet discovered the means by which
unspoken thought can take form and expression. No galvanic wire nor
chemical battery has yet been invented by them, through which these
electric sparks may be drawn down from their unseen habitations among
the clouds; but in the world of spirits this great discovery, as I
have shown you, has been made. In this appliance you find the thoughts
of the speaker running through these sensitive wires until, like
telegraphic messages, they reach their destination on earth.”

I listened to Franklin’s explanation of this gigantic sensorium with
my soul filled with love and admiration for the great Creator who
had formed the human mind with its vast capacity for penetrating the
sublime mysteries of nature.

After leaving the dome I continued my inspection of the edifice. But of
its halls and galleries, its boudoirs, libraries, and peerless gardens,
I will speak at some future time.



NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

_TO THE FRENCH NATION_.


Triumph sits regent upon the Napoleonic banner. Napoleon the First is
dictator to Napoleon the Third. By my side stands Josephine. We were
not destined to part eternally. In Louis Napoleon Bonaparte her blood
and mine commingle. _Restez-vous, mon patrie; Napoleon shall decide
aright. _No, petit garçon, _Napoleon le Grand will place you upon the
highest pinnacle of peace.

Fate is inexorable. The decrees of destiny are more potent than the
wisdom of man. France and Napoleon are indissoluble. The star of
Bonaparte is destined to shine yet for the next half-century. None but
a patriot shall rule France. No proud Austrian, nor weak and haughty
Bourbon shall flame their colors from the palaces of France. No, my
countryman! he who serves you, who leads your armies to victory, who
raises your citizens to distinction, he whose courage is undaunted, he
who has the power of prescience--is Napoleon.

When Louis shall join me his spirit and mine will still animate the
Bonapartes who shall come after us.

Repose entire confidence in his discretion. Napoleon the Third lives
only for France.

You cry for liberty of speech and liberty of the press. But liberty is
anarchy. Would you demand liberty for the army? Without a head to guide
and control it, the army of France would be a scourge.

Through calamity the most depressing, the hand of destiny has led Louis
Napoleon to the throne of France, and against sickness and disease,
against the hand of the assassin, and against vilifications of his
enemies, it will hold him there, firm. His time has not yet come.
Before he bids adieu to life he will secure an able leader for France.

I give him my hand. I embrace him in spirit. The shadow of Napoleon
attends him by day and by night.

Adieu, NAPOLEON.



W. M. THACKERAY.

_HIS POST MORTEM EXPERIENCE_.


Poor Will Thackeray, when a stripling, was fit to kneel in the street
before his mistress, that bright luminary who shone to his boyish eyes
like a star of the first magnitude! Alas, he discovered her to be one
of the sixteenth, and by the time he had ceased to care for polished
boots and stiff, broad collars, she had dwindled down to an ordinary
piece of humanity!

He found his boon companions, like himself, liable to mistake an ant
for a whale and think the King of England next in royalty to a god!

What a fool he made of himself in the eyes of those who were wiser than
he, when he swore the crown of England was made of unalloyed gold! The
water he drank was filled with animalculae, yet he swore it was pure
as the gods’ nectar. The best and freshest air he breathed contained
poison, yet his boyish wisdom knew better than that.

Poor Thackeray! wiser men than he knew that youthful imagination was
a cheat; that the mistress of his heart was not a goddess; and wiser
beings than they all knew--angelic beings, living in the golden streets
of Paradise, knew--that the conception of what the spirit after death
would be able to do was as far from the truth as were his boyish dreams
of the mistress of his heart!

Poor Thackeray! he has attained that superior wisdom now! He walks,
himself a ghost, among the ghosts of the past; and these “airy
nothings” nod and smile, and shake hands, and say:

“Yes, we are ourselves.”

He thrusts his hands into his trowsers pockets, and remembers the time
when he thought it would be indecent to go naked in the New Jerusalem!
Trowsers, forsooth! Yes, here they are, pockets and all; and he dives
his hands in deeper, jingling something which strongly resembles cash;
and struts about and hobnobs with Addison, Spencer, Sterne, old Dean
Swift, and he asks himself, “are these the great men of my fancy?” On
reflection he finds he had expected to meet these luminaries shining
like actual stars in the firmament, attended by some undefined splendor.

Poor Will Thackeray! he finds the same dross in the gold, the same
animalculae in the water, the same poison in the air, the same fact
that men are not gods in that much-vaunted place called heaven, as on
the much-abused earth. But he wipes his spectacles, and clears away the
mist of speculation and fancy, which has bedimmed his eyes, and looks
about him more hopefully and trustfully than in the days when he walked
through Vanity Fair and saw how Mr. Timms, with not a penny in the
bank, pinched himself to give a little dinner in imitation of a great
lord who gave a great dinner, and had gold beyond his count; snobs, who
wore paste jewels and cotton-backed velvet, who cursed a fellow and
strutted about in imitation of noble lords, who wore real diamonds and
silken velvets! mimicking the follies of the great, but never their
noble deeds and heroisms.

He is beyond snobs now. He is in the land of heroisms and heroes. Yet
he feels he has been cheated by the fat parson who stole sovereigns
from his pocket to keep him out of h----! His spiritual bones fairly
ache with the leagues he has travelled, hunting up the throne of God!
“Where the deuce,” he mutters, “is the showman?” He can’t find the lake
of fire and brimstone without a guide.

Poor Thackeray! he again wipes his spectacles and feels he has been
sold! This life on the other side of Jordan he finds to be what his
American cousins would call a “humbug,” a downright swindle upon
the sympathies and good taste of those who wear long streamers of
crape, and groan and sob over his funeral rites! He feels in duty
bound (out of consideration for those mourners who expect nothing
else) to go scudding through the air in a loose white shroud, or to
rest cosily housed away in the “bosom of his Maker,” like a big,
grown-up infant that he is, or else to be howling at the top of his
lungs hallelujahs!--he that could never raise a note. And, if not so,
certainly, out of compliment to the judgment of his boon companions,
he should be engaged in the dread alternative of sitting astride a
pair of balances and being “weighed and found wanting;” or having been
sent by the relentless Judge into everlasting torment “where there is
cursing and gnashing of teeth,” he should be found there tormenting his
fellow-imps!

But alas! to his mortification, nothing of the kind is occurring or
seems likely to occur.

He has been as active as the next man since his arrival in ghostdom.
He has peeped under the _chapeaux_ of every solemn pilgrim whom he has
passed, but failed to find the four-and-twenty elders who have washed
their robes in the blood of the Lamb. What has he found? He really is
ashamed to own up to the number of mountain sides and sloping hills
he has inspected in the vain search for a place he used to call h----
(he thought it blasphemy to add the other three letters); but neither
cloven foot, nor forked tail, nor horns, nor any kind of fearful person
in black, has pounced upon him; nor has he been seized by any claimant
for leaving the world unshriven, as he did.

Poor Will Thackeray! it has been a great disappointment to him! He
expected some kind of sensational reception--thunder or lightning, or
some big God whose towering front might vie with Chimborazo--to awe him
into the consideration that he had become a spirit and was launched
into the awful precincts of eternity! No wonder he feels dogged and
put upon to find himself thus bamboozled! He undertook a long and
venturesome journey to “see the elephant,” but it wasn’t there!

He can’t complain against the citizens of this famous “undiscovered
bourne”; they have done all that’s fair and square by him; they have
shown all that they have got; and he is too much of a gentleman
to taunt them. He knows they feel ashamed that they haven’t those
curiosities that their Vicegerents on earth had vouched for their
having; he can see it in their faces; but he considers himself in duty
bound to prepare his fellow-citizens for what they are to expect.



ARCHBISHOP HUGHES.

_TWO NATURAL RELIGIONS_.


There are two great natural religions before the world, the Roman
Catholic and the Spiritualistic; and both are adapted to the wants of
the race.

Man naturally gives expression to his thoughts by external forms
corresponding to his ideas.

The Roman Catholic religion is accused of being a system of forms and
ceremonies, but therein lies its wonderful adaptation to humanity.
Thought ever seeks expression in form, even as a mother’s love for her
infant finds expression in her ardent embrace.

Love is the prevailing element of the Catholic religion, as shown by
the love of the Son of God for poor, ignorant, sinful creatures.

We do not present this to the mind ideally. We call in the outcast and
the beggar, and we expose to their view, in the great cathedrals, the
Son of God, as he appeared in all his various experiences of human life.

The parent who can earn but a scanty pittance for his offspring, sees
before him Jesus lying in the manger, equal in squalid poverty with the
lowest of mankind.

The majesty and glory of the courts of Heaven are symbolized in the
Roman Church. _There_ is gathered the wealth of the world! All that is
yet attained in the representation of the grand, the beautiful, the
majestic, the sublime, and the devotional, is collected in the Mother
of Churches.

What earthly king, in his noble palace, with its costly architecture,
its ornaments of silver and gold, its rare paintings and statuary,
the wealth and accumulation of many sovereigns, would admit into its
sacred precincts the poor and the lowly, the beggar and the thief, the
Magdalen and the Lazarus to sully with their presence his royal abode?

But we erect palaces to the King of Heaven! regal in architecture,
and adorned with beauty surpassing in magnificence earthly royalty,
in which the lowliest may enter on an equality with the prince; his
untutored mind, his uncultivated senses may listen to music of the
highest order. The pealing tones of the organ resound under the touch
of the highest masters of art for his simple ear. Listening to those
strains, his mind forms a conception of the harmony and beatitude of
Heaven!

Even death is not looked upon with horror by the Catholic. If he lose a
friend in this life, unlike the Protestant, he does not abandon him in
oblivion, but his sympathies still extend to him by offering masses for
his soul. And it is because it is so adapted to man’s spiritual nature
that the Catholic religion has withstood the shock and surge of ages!

The restless, heaving billows of time have washed against the
seven-hilled Church in vain.

My soul rests in peace. It has taken its abode in Elysium. And in this
world among the stars, seeing clearer and further than when I inhabited
the lowly planet earth, I look down upon the struggling, dying race I
have left behind, and feel still, that the _Roman Catholic religion is
the religion for the masses_.

A great majority of men are born into the world but little higher than
the beasts that perish. Their spiritual natures, though feeble, need
food that is adapted to their wants. That food we furnish.

Our priests, our sisters of charity, our holy fathers, our Benedictine
monks, our nuns, are to be found in every quarter of the globe. On the
mountains of everlasting snow, among the icebergs of the Polar Sea, and
in the sandy deserts; on inhospitable shores, in the torrid zone, under
the burning rays of the equatorial sun; with the savage and with the
sage they are found ever ready to stimulate the spiritual nature, to
give earthly advice, and supply material wants.

As a spirit I speak of what I think best adapted to the needs of man.
I endeavor to throw aside the prejudices of education. I look upon the
Protestant religion as unnatural; a monstrous belief which deforms man.
So far as I can see, its influence has been blighting. It takes youth,
joy, and animation from the world. It grants no indulgence for sin, nor
for the mistakes of ignorance. It is cruel and harsh, and men become
narrow and self-elated under its teachings.

The Spiritualistic religion resembles the Catholic in its breadth and
amplitude, and in its humanizing and equalizing influence. I expect the
day will come when all minor beliefs will be swallowed up in these two
great religions.

The Catholic Church in the spirit world is not so extensive as it
is upon earth. Its usefulness is more especially adapted to earthly
conditions.

There are some noble cathedrals in the spirit world. Mass is offered up
every morning at the cathedral of the Five Virgins in my bishopric.

The sisterhood of the Five Wise Virgins, newly organized, inhabit
beautiful and commodious edifices adjacent.

It is their business to escort from earth youthful souls who have been
baptized in the Church, and who are friendless and vagrant, having
inhabited while on earth such parts of New York City as the Five Points
and Water street, and having neither kindred nor connection to claim
them.

These are received into the beautiful home of the sisterhood. They
bathe in the golden fountains of youth, and are instructed in various
ways. They are taught the uses of magnetism, mesmerism, and psychology,
and return to earth to rap, write, and speak, through media, and to
bring back the stray lambs to the fold.



EDGAR A. POE.

_THE LOST SOUL_.


Hark the bell! the funeral bell,
    Calling the soul
    To its goal.
Oh! the haunted human heart,
From its idol doomed to part!
Yet a twofold being bearing,
She and I apart are tearing;
She to heaven I to hell!
Going, going! Hark the bell!
    Far in hell,
    Tolling, tolling.
    Fiends are rolling,
Whitened bones, and coffins reeking,
Fearful darkness grimly creeping
    On my soul,
    My vision searing,
    She disappearing,
    Drawn from me
    By a soul I cannot see,
Whom I know can never love her.
Oh! that soul could I discover,
    I would go,
    Steeped in woe,
Down to darkness, down to hell!
Hark the bell! Farewell! farewell!



JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

_INVISIBLE INFLUENCES._


A ship is on the ocean. The wind is fair. All hands are in motion.
But a few hours since, it left port. Among its passengers is a gay
traveller; he wears a silken cloak fringed with gold. The sailors
admire his splendor; they gather around him as he walks the deck with
his flying robe. They put forth their rough hands to feel its soft
texture; its warm, bright color gives pleasure to their eyes. As they
gaze their pulses heighten, their steps become unsteady, their eyes
wander from duty, their great sturdy frames quiver with emotion. The
captain rallies them, but in vain.

What secret foe is in their midst? Their parched tongues, cleaving
to the roofs of their mouths, call for the surgeon. He comes--he
questions, “From whence comest thou?” “From the Orient,” the traveller
replies. The surgeon gasps and shakes his head. He, too, is stricken
with fear. “’Tis the _plague_!” he whispers. An unseen, deadly foe is
stalking beneath that gay cloak! The traveller hears and shudders; he
flings off his gay vestment. The waves gather up the silken folds. But
the sacrifice is useless. A fell hand strikes down both traveller and
sailor. As they gasp and die they are hurried to the ship’s side; they
are plunged overboard; a seething, foaming grave yawns to receive them.

The ship glides on. Those who remain wash the deck with water. They
cannot wash away the demon, which is everywhere and yet nowhere....
Poisons as subtle attend the human spirit, baneful and contagious as
the plague!

See yonder peaceful cottage, nestling by the hillside; hope and
contentment dwell therein; within its walls beauty and grace awaken
harmony. Lured by the bright sunshine, a stranger enters the door. He
sits and chats awhile with the inmates. His talk is pleasant, and as he
converses a cloud falls upon the house, the sunshine becomes darkened,
and the dwellers within the pretty cottage shiver as with cold. They
heed not the change, for the chat of their guest delights them. But
when he departs he leaves behind him a poison more baneful than the
plague.

The inmates of the peaceful cottage look with gloomy eyes one upon the
other; they become dissatisfied and distracted among themselves, and
discord takes the place of harmony.

Secret influences are at work, poisons thrown out by the sphere of
the guest. A worse fate befalls them than befell the sailors who were
invaded by the insidious Plague.

I have seen in nature a fair face clouded suddenly--made gloomy
and unlovely--by the unspoken thought of another. Thought is
contagious--some varieties of it poisonous! I have seen the countenance
of an innocent child transformed into ugliness by a poisonous thought.
I have seen those who have looked upon her receive that thought and
become likewise infected.

I have seen also to this picture another and a brighter side. I have
seen secret influences drawing individuals together, sustaining and
upholding them; as the long line filaments of wool clasp each other
and draw together the separate particles, so have I seen individuals
united. Thus was the first Napoleon united to Josephine. A secret
influence as potent as the plague passed from one to the other; but it
breathed health and not poison.

Napoleon, with his powerful will, disrupted these magnetic relations;
he tore apart the unseen filaments that bound them; and, the sustaining
influence gone, he fell--a mighty wreck--on the bleak shore of St.
Helena.

What man or woman can comprehend the secret influences that surround
the soul. Keep guard; and when the blood stagnates within, when secret
shudders, and gloomy thoughts, and inharmonious feelings arise, be sure
that some poison-breathing foe is at hand.

Set the door ajar, and resolutely turn your face from the secret
influence that would destroy you.



CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ.

(CURRER BELL.)

_AGNES REEF.--A TALE_.

CHAPTER I.


I was brought up and educated by my bachelor uncle. He was a reticent,
moody man, and with his aged housekeeper and myself, led a solitary and
unsocial life in the old rambling house which had been his father’s
before him.

I was but a child of six years when destiny placed me under his charge,
and with him I remained eleven years; a scared, repressed little thing,
revelling in strange fancies in the spidery attic rooms, and looking
down through the dusty cobwebbed windows upon the life and movement
below, unconscious that I formed a part of that active humanity.

Thus I lived until I entered my seventeenth year. For the last two
years my mind had been expanding and growing discontented with my lot.
The moroseness of my uncle, the sullenness of his housekeeper, the
gloom and dinginess of the bare rooms had grown insupportable to me.
These alone I might have endured, but added to them were other sources
of disquiet, not the least of which being hints from the housekeeper
that it was time I began to do something for myself. Youth, pride, and
ambition stirred within me, and I actively set about looking, for a
situation.

I had not long to wait; in one of the weekly papers, of which my uncle
took many, I one day discovered an advertisement, which to my morbid
fancy seemed sent by fate especially to me.

A young lady was wanted to take charge of the education of a boy of
eleven years. Upon reading this advertisement, I immediately sat down
and wrote a letter, offering my services.

By return mail I received a note acknowledging the receipt of mine,
and stating that as I was the only applicant and my testimonials
satisfactory, I was accepted.

I informed my uncle of my good fortune. He received the news with a
gruff approval, adding that he hoped I would do well, as I could expect
no further pecuniary aid from him than would be sufficient to carry me
there.

My emotions, as I packed my little trunk on that memorable Saturday,
were of a mixed character; but pleasure predominated. Hope beckoned me
on; and the sadness attendant on breaking loose from the unfriendly
home in which I had lived so long was but transitory.

Monday morning saw me seated composedly in the rail-coach on the way
to “Bristed Hall,” my destination. Towards nightfall we stopped at a
station in a desolate, sparsely-inhabited district. My road diverging
here, I hurried out, and the long train which connected me with my past
life sped out of sight.

Drawing my veil closely to my face to hide a few falling tears, I
looked around the desolate waiting-room, to see if any fellow-creature
was expecting me. As I did so a heavy, thumping footstep sounded upon
the platform, and a surly voice inquired:

“Are you Miss Reef?” accompanying the question by a slight pull at my
shawl.

Turning, I beheld a deformed little man with long arms and a high back,
awaiting my answer to his question. I summoned courage to ask:

“Were you sent for Miss Reef?”

“Yes,” he replied, “I am Mr. Bristed’s man. He told me to drive here
and fetch home a Miss Reef--if you are that person, miss!” touching his
hat with an effort at politeness.

“I am,” I answered, and without further ado we proceeded to the
carriage, which he had left waiting at the rear platform.

The evening air was chilly, for it was quite sunset. Drawing my shawl
around me, I ensconced myself in a corner of the vehicle, and watched
the fading landscape with stolid indifference to whatever might befall
me.

We drove on thus for a good hour and a half, halting at length before a
dark, massy object, the form of which my dozy eyes could not discern.
However, it proved to be Bristed Hall.

I emerged from the carriage and passed up the steps to an open door
which, at the pausing of our carriage wheels, had been set ajar. An
old woman, the feminine counterpart of my sulky driver, stood in the
dimly-lighted passage-way to receive me. She vouchsafed me but a grum
welcome, but I felt already too desolate and weary to experience any
further depression from her humor.

Bidding me follow her, and ordering the man to carry my luggage, she
led me directly through the hall up the stairway to a chamber evidently
prepared for my use. The apartment was prettily furnished, and its tidy
appearance and the cheerful fire burning on the hearth quite roused my
drooping spirits.

After assisting me to remove my bonnet and shawl, my conductress left
me, returning ere long with a tray containing refreshments. These she
set before me with silent hospitality; then bade me goodnight, saying
she would call me in the morning at eight o’clock for breakfast.

My sleep that night was disturbed by dreams, which though vague filled
me with terror.

I imagined that I was walking through a long corridor, opening into a
sumptuous apartment, its interior partly concealed by rich folds of
damask curtains. I lifted the heavy drapery and essayed to enter, but
a cold hand grasped mine and prevented me. A woman’s figure, slight
and youthful, with white face, great sad eyes, and long yellow hair,
stood in the arched doorway and pressed me back with her clammy hand.
I started up from my pillow in alarm to find myself alone; the pale
moonbeams streaming through the looped curtains of the window and
glancing upon my forehead, I thought, probably accounted for the cold
hand of my dream. I slept, and dreamed again. The scene was changed:
a field of stubble lay before me; through it I must make my way; the
rough ground hurt my feet; I stumbled and fell; attempting to rise, I
saw painted in clear relief against the horizon the same female figure.

Her pale, golden hair hung long and loose over her shoulders. As she
caught my eye she lifted her finger as if in warning, and disappeared
from sight.



CHAPTER II.


From these dreams I awakened in the morning perplexed, disturbed, and
unrefreshed. After dressing, I was summoned to breakfast by the person
who had received me the previous night. She led me down the stairway
and through the hall into the breakfast room.

It was a long, narrow apartment, with wainscots and floor of polished
oak. A bright fire blazed upon the hearth. A small round stand was set
forth, upon which was placed my solitary repast. I seated myself and
partook, with a relish, of the nice cakes, fragrant coffee, and sweet
clover butter.

Having finished my meal, I arose and walked to one of the deep-set
windows which lighted the apartment. Lifting the curtain, I looked out.

A grassy lawn overhung with trees; clear gravel paths and well-trimmed
shrubbery; beyond, rocks relieved by a patch of blue sky; a thin
line of light, neutral tinted, winding through the distant meadows,
indicating a streamlet; these constituted the landscape.

Having spent a full quarter of an hour in abstractedly gazing at this
scene, I was called to reality by the opening of the room door, and a
strange voice repeating my name. The person presenting herself appeared
to be an upper servant--a tall, thin woman, with dark hair sprinkled
with gray, and an amiable, weak face.

“If you have finished your breakfast, Miss, I will show you to Mr.
Bristed’s room.”

I assured her it was completed, and, following her. I crossed the hall
and entered a door at the left. A pleasant odor of flowers met my
grateful senses. The room was spacious, wide and deep, and handsomely
carpeted. The walls were ornamented with paintings and engravings.

An ample arm-chair, which the owner had evidently just vacated, and
a table containing books and papers, gave a tone of both comfort and
elegance to the room, which was decidedly congenial to my taste.

Two great glass doors, reflecting clearly the morning sunbeams, led
into a conservatory from whence issued the fragrance I perceived on
entering.

Among the flowers moved a tall, manly figure. As I entered, the
gentleman came forward.

“Miss Reef, Mr. Bristed,” said my companion, by way of introduction.

So this was my employer. As he stood before me, I surveyed him; a
well-formed gentleman, above the ordinary height, with pale complexion,
set off by dark, penetrative eyes; a shapely head covered with long,
heavy masses of straight dark hair. The impression his appearance
conveyed to me was that of a person benevolent but apathetic; unhappy
without the will or power to shake off his burden.

He bade me be seated. “You are young,” said he, reflectively. “May I
ask your age?”

“Seventeen,” I replied.

“Very young,” he reiterated, thoughtfully shaking his head; “however,
as you are here, if you wish to remain, Mary will introduce you to your
pupil.”

“I certainly wish to remain,” said I, impatiently; “I have journeyed
quite a distance for that purpose, and shall be happy to commence the
instruction of my pupil immediately.”

“Very well,” said he. “Mary, take her to the nursery, and attend to any
of her wants.”

The girl opened a door adjoining that which we had entered by; a narrow
hall and a flight of stairs led us to the room indicated.

A little solitary figure, breathing upon the window-glass, and tracing
thereon letters with long, thin fingers, was the first object that
presented itself to my eye,

“Here is your governess, Herbert,” said Mary.

The little boy turned and surveyed me with his large, blue, mournful
eyes. They sent a quiver through my frame from their strange
resemblance to eyes I had seen but the night before in my dream.

He was apparently satisfied with his inspection, and his thin scarlet
lips parted into a smile.

I called him to me. He came forward timidly.

Taking his small hand, I asked him a few questions about his studies.
I found him intelligent, but grave beyond his years; very docile and
obedient, and ere the end of the day we became excellent friends.



CHAPTER III


I had lived six weeks at Bristed Hall, and, excepting on my first
arrival, had not interchanged a word with its master. ’Tis true I would
see him at times from the school-room window, walking through his park,
or smoking upon the long piazza, but he might have been across the
ocean for all the intercourse we had together.

It was early June; roses bloomed on every hedge. A season of dry
weather had succeeded the showers of spring, the mornings were
sparkling, the air delicious. I arose early one particularly sunny
morn, that I might take a walk, before the studies of the day
commenced, to a natural lake which I had discovered about a mile from
the Hall.

Herbert begged to accompany me, and I, who loved at times the quiet of
my own thoughts, reluctantly granted his request.

We strolled out of the inclosure, and were leisurely wending our way
over the road, when our attention was attracted by the sound of wheels
emerging from a cross path. A carriage rolled briskly in view. The
little hand of my companion, which I held locked in mine, trembled
violently.

“Oh, Miss Agnes, Miss Agnes!” he cried, pointing to the occupant of the
carriage, “there is Uncle Richard.”

As it neared us, the driver reined in his horses, which snorted
impatiently as he paused, and a musical voice called out:

“Hallo! you young varlet; where are you going so early in the morning?”

Herbert answered faintly, “I am going with Miss Reef to the lake.”

The gentleman at this reply waved his jewelled hand gracefully toward
me. “Miss Reef, I am happy to make your acquaintance. So you are the
young lady who has undertaken to be bored with my little nephew?”

“He is not a bore,” said I, smilingly, captivated by the grace and
abandon of the traveller. And truly his handsome countenance might have
captivated a girl more experienced in the world’s ways than myself.
His was a gay, spirited face, complexion fair and rosy; full red lips,
graced with a curling moustache; golden locks fit for an Adonis; sunny,
dancing eyes, and a figure rather massive, but well formed. Such was
the impression I received of this “Uncle Richard.”

“Allow me to give you a seat in my brougham,” said he.

I thanked him, but refused.

“Bound on some romantic expedition,” he said, laughing; “I can see
it in your beaming eyes. Well, I suppose I must continue my solitary
drive; but don’t tarry long at the dismal lake; hasten back, as I shall
want a companion to chat with in the empty Hall.”

I found Herbert unwilling to talk about his uncle, so I tried to
dismiss the new comer from my thoughts, and engaged with my pupil
in gathering wild flowers and grasses wherewith to form wreaths and
bouquets to adorn our school-room. After rambling about for an hour, we
turned homeward.

I felt quite excited upon reaching the Hall, and hurried to my room to
smooth my hair preparatory to commencing the labors of the day. If I
stood over my mirror longer than usual, remember I was young, and had
a laudable desire to please. As I surveyed myself in the glass, I was
guilty of a pleasurable cognizance of the figure and face reflected
there. The walk and unexpected encounter had given an unwonted
brilliancy and vivacity to my countenance. My cheeks glowed; my eyes
sparkled; and from my chestnut curls depended wild flowers, and wreaths
of Herbert’s twining; altogether a pleasing picture presented itself to
view, which, without vanity, I was thankful to behold.

We had not been long at our lessons when a voice, gaily singing,
approached the door, and without the ceremony of knocking, the
gentleman whom we had passed in our morning ramble entered the room.

“I have been looking all over for you; why are you hiding yourself
away up here?” said he, merrily. “Can you not take another pupil, Miss
Reef?” at the same time drawing up his chair to the table at which
Herbert and myself were seated.

“If he is as tractable as Herbert, I might venture,” I replied,
assuming the gay, mocking tone of my questioner.

I soon saw that he was bent on remaining; so, taking from my desk a
drawing-book and pencil, I placed them before him.

“There is your task; please not to interrupt me.” I was determined not
to be beguiled from my duty by this gay cavalier. He permitted us to
pursue our studies uninterruptedly till he had finished his drawing.

“There,” he exclaimed, placing it before me. “Will you not reward me
for my industry?”

I looked at the sketch. It was bold and clear, shaded with a firm hand,
spirited and original. I was truly surprised at the skill evinced.

After that day he visited our room often, calling in during the morning
to exchange a pleasant word, or at the close of the school hours to
loiter over our drawings and chat of books and music. His visits began
to grow too pleasant to me. Some effort must be made on my side to
render them less attractive.

One afternoon he entered as usual, and waited patiently till Herbert
had recited his closing lesson. Then he arose, and taking a guitar from
its case, commenced playing and singing a song in a most bewitching
manner.

“Come, Miss Reef,” said he, when he had finished, “that beautiful hand
is just made to glide over this instrument. Allow me to give you a
lesson.”

Feeling that if I permitted him to encroach upon my position as
governess I would be lost, I refused. I must give him to understand
that I know my place and will not be trifled with, I thought; so
I arose and rang the bell for Mary. She soon appeared, apparently
surprised at seeing Mr. Richard Bristed so much at home in the
school-room.

“Mary, sit down; I wish you to hem this handkerchief for Herbert,” said
I.

She seated herself with my work-box before her, and commenced plying
her needle industriously. The young gentleman looked on my arrangement
with a lurking smile for a few moments, and then uttering a long,
low whistle, arose from his chair and sauntered out. Passing me, he
whispered:

“I will remember you for this, Miss Reef.” He did seem to remember it,
as several days elapsed without his presenting himself.

Once I met him in the hall, and he merely bowed. If he had wished to
arouse in me an interest in himself, he could not have pursued a better
plan; for I grew restless and uneasy, regretting heartily that I had
offended him.



CHAPTER IV.


After three days had passed thus, I concluded I would explain to him my
motive. Accordingly, in the afternoon, when my hour of recreation came,
I brushed my hair carefully, changed my dress, and descended to the
piazza on which he generally lounged in the afternoon with a cigar.

As he was not there, I seated myself on a rustic chair to watch for
him. I had not sat many minutes when I heard the wheels of a carriage
on the gravel path; then the gay voice of Mr. Richard met my ear. I
turned: he was seated in the vehicle with a valise beside him, and was
apparently bound on a journey. As he caught sight of me, he raised his
hat, bowed distantly, and drove off.

A dreary sense of loneliness crept over me. The setting sun filled the
west with its golden splendor. Great yellow bars of sunlight streamed
through the railing, and lit up the floor of the piazza. Sitting there
I was bathed in its ruddy flood. Happy birds poured forth their evening
song in the bushes near by; but I was miserable and alone. All nature
seemed to rejoice, while I, her child, was desolate.

“You appear sad, miss,” said a voice close beside me. I looked up and
beheld the elder Mr. Bristed. He had evidently observed my emotion, and
his dark eye looked a reproof that his lips did not utter.

Presently, he seated himself near me, and asked a few questions as to
the progress my pupil was making. Having satisfied him on those points,
he inquired kindly if I was lonely or discontented.

“Oh, no,” I answered, heartily, hoping to place a barrier to any
further inquiries on that point.

“But you have been weeping,” said he, in a subdued voice.

“Not because I am lonely,” said I, resolved to have the truth out; “but
I fear I have wounded the feelings of your brother.”

“My brother!” he repeated. “Ah! you have become acquainted with him?
He is bright and glittering like the sun; but be careful, my child, be
careful! Young birds should avoid the glittering steel of the fowler.
But youth will seek its own experience,” he remarked, with a deep
sigh. “No friendly warning will teach the young to beware of danger.
But consider me your friend, Miss Reef, and let me likewise be your
monitor.”

Without waiting for my reply, he hastily left me and entered the house.



CHAPTER V.


Four weeks elapsed ere Richard’s return. During his absence Mr. Bristed
showed his sympathy for my lonely situation by many little attentions;
sending up to the school-room, now and then, choice fruit from his
hot-house, or a bouquet of conservatory flowers, and, several times in
the early evening, he sent for me to read aloud to him.

I found him to be a quiet, polished gentleman; and I grew to like
him, and to look for his tokens of kindness after my daily labors
with growing interest, and, if they came not, to feel disappointed
and unhappy. He had travelled much and could talk well, and under the
influence of a sympathetic listener, his countenance lit up with kindly
emotion, and the sad lines of his face disappeared beneath a happy
smile.

But in the glowing midsummer his truant brother returned, and my
new-born interest vanished like snow before the harvest sun.

Again Mr. Richard exerted his varied powers to fascinate and amuse
me. Again I listened, and struggled, as formerly, against his wiles,
and finally bent a too willing ear to his soft words of praise and
admiration. With secret pleasure I reveled in his ardent language,
hugging to my heart the belief that I was loved.

How that summer sped by on its golden wings! Time passed on, as in some
delicious opium dream! And when the short clays and long nights of the
Christmas holidays set in, I found myself secretly engaged in marriage
to Richard Bristed.

Of our plans and attachment his brother was not at present to be
informed: this stern brother who shut himself up apart from his
species, and who, Richard told me, was of too cold a nature to
sympathize with love.

“He will dismiss you, Agnes, if he hears of it,” he said. “Wait till I
have settled up my affairs, and then he can do his worst.”

I believed this statement; I forgot all my former good impressions of
Mr. Bristed, and listened to the tales that were told me of how he
had wronged Richard. I learned to regard him as a robber, a hypocrite
whose statements could not be relied on; a false, dark, bad man. As for
Richard, he seemed a king in comparison; a noble, magnanimous being,
whom some kind fairy had bestowed upon me.

But that cold, relentless Fate, which comes to tear off the painted
wrappings of life, revealing the bare and ugly reality beneath, was
fast pursuing me.

At the close of a cold, snowy day, I had retired early to my room, and
having locked the door that I might be free from interruption, sat
down to look over the dainty articles of dress which I had been shyly
accumulating for my approaching marriage.

It was but a scanty outfit, but to me it appeared munificent as that of
a princess. I could never weary of looking at these beautiful garments;
I placed them in one light, and then in another; I folded and unfolded
them, and finally ended by trying them on, and admiring in the mirror
their perfect adaptation to my face and figure. A long time must have
passed in this way, when the hall clock struck the hour of midnight.
Astonished at the lateness of the night, I threw down the laces and
ribbons which I was combining into some airy article of dress, and was
preparing to remove my bridal attire, when I was amazed to hear a key
turning in the lock of my door. Fear and surprise nailed me to the
floor. The door glided softly open and in stepped Mr. Richard Bristed!
He seemed surprised to see me thus.

“What! up and dressed?” he exclaimed, in a loud whisper. “O my beauty!
my wife! I have come to claim you to-night. You shall be mine. No power
on earth shall withhold us now!”

“How strangely you talk, Richard,” said I. “You forget it is so late.
We cannot go to church at this hour.”

“Ah, dearest, this is church! See, I have brought you this ring. We
will stand up before God and our own hearts, and I will marry you here.
We need no other witnesses than ourselves and this ring!”

Though my youthful heart was blinded by love and passion, I was not
prepared for this. Excitement and the strangeness of the proposition
overcame me, and I broke forth into sobs.

He endeavored to soothe me, urging his request with a pleading force
which I could scarcely withstand.

“I am not prepared, Richard,” said I, drying my tears; “this is so
sudden, so unlooked for, I must have time for thought.”

But thought only revealed a gaping abyss, from which I must fly.

He continued to urge his plea; but seeing I would not yield, his
countenance changed. The sweet, seductive smile vanished. He grew white
as the moonbeam, and, clenching his hand and setting his teeth, bent
over me, whispering huskily:

“Agnes, I shall not step from this room to-night. I have the key. You
have promised to be mine. You shall keep that promise. To-night you
shall keep that promise!”

If he was pale, I became paler. A cold chill crept over me. But I took
my resolution, unyielding as death, not to grant his request.

A chasm seemed to yawn before me. The loneliness and friendlessness of
my position were presented to my mind with terrific reality. A deadly
swoon-like feeling ensued. To yield in this might seal my fate. I paced
the floor rapidly, praying for help.

Help came suddenly. As I passed the door of my wardrobe, I remembered
that the same key unlocked this and the door of my apartment. I drew it
forth, and in the twinkling of an eye I was free.

The cool air from the outside passage, and the prospect of liberty,
cooled my excited nerves, and revived me for the work I had to
accomplish.

“Richard,” said I, my hand upon the latch, “you or I must leave.”

He made no reply, but violently rising from his chair, grasped
something that lay near him, and tearing it to atoms, rushed by me
without word or look, and reaching the stairs, hastened out of sight.

Mechanically I sat down, and with sad, straining eyes surveyed the
wreck before me. My bridal wreath was shivered into fragments; its
white petals, like fruit blossoms caught in an untimely blast,
sprinkled the floor; my laces were in shreds like the riven mast of
some shipwrecked vessel.

Of course there was no sleep for me that night. When worn out with
thinking and weeping, I drew a large easy chair up to the door and sat
there as guard, listening, with the hope which moment after moment grew
fainter, that he would return and whisper in my willing ear a sweet
demand for pardon, some word in extenuation for his unseemly conduct;
but he came not.

Toward daybreak, I was aroused from the lethargy into which I had
fallen from sheer exhaustion by the sound of excited voices and hurried
movements in the room below. As these subsided and the gray morning
broke, I was startled by the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the graveled
walk.

A fearful foreboding possessed me; what could it mean? Somebody was
riding away; who was it? Through the gate and down the avenue I heard
the galloping steed.

I dragged my nerveless limbs to the window and peered forth. Clear
against the horizon, now streaked with pale crimson rays of dawn,
rising in bold relief I beheld the receding figure of Richard Bristed.

He was leaving me without word or sign. My head reeled; I grasped the
window casement to steady myself, and sank insensible upon the floor.



CHAPTER VI.


I must have remained in this condition some hours, for the sun was high
in the heavens when I opened my eyes and became conscious. Where was I?
Not in my own room, surely; the fragrance of exotics did not penetrate
my lattice; the simple honeysuckle that twined around my window
breathed forth a different perfume from this. My heart gave one glad
leap. Oh, it is all a dream! I thought; Richard’s galloping down the
road, and all the past night’s misery is a dream! With this reflection
a happy tranquillity was stealing over me, when I heard a well-known
voice exclaim:

“Look, Mary, attend her; she has opened her eyes, thank God.”

It was Mr. Bristed’s voice, and as he spoke Mary approached me, and
bending over, bathed my head with scented water. “Hope you feel better,
Miss,” said she.

“Have I been ill, Mary? Where am I?”

“In master’s library.”

Surely it was so. I was lying upon a divan near the conservatory. Alas,
I was not dreaming! I sat up and looked drearily around, and as I did
so Mr. Bristed drew near with a beautiful lily in his hand, which he
offered to me. He inquired kindly after my health and looked pleased
when I told him I felt quite strong. Indeed I did feel strong for the
moment, and arose determined to leave the room.

“Sit still--where are you going?” he asked anxiously.

“Going to the school-room--going to see Herbert,” I replied.

“Herbert,” said he, and his countenance darkened; “you cannot see
Herbert, he is ill.”

Not see Herbert, and he ill? What could be the matter? He was well but
yesterday.

Mr. Bristed’s strange manner, coupled with Richard’s absence and the
fearful events of the night, seemed likely to turn my brain.

He saw my startled look of inquiry, and said, “Be quiet awhile; I have
something of importance which I will communicate to you by-and-by, when
you are composed.”

“Mary,” he ordered, “ring the bell for breakfast to be sent hither;
meanwhile, Miss Reef, while awaiting our coffee, if you will walk with
me in the conservatory I will take pleasure in showing you my tropical
curiosities.”

I followed him languidly with wandering thoughts. Gradually, however, I
grew interested and listened with increased attention to his animated
description of the homes and haunts of the wonders by which he was
surrounded. He had visited many climes, and gathered each strange
flower and plant he had seen in its native clime. He became eloquent
and genial as he described the strange habits and peculiarities of his
floral companions, which he seemed to regard as a species of humanity;
to him they were not inanimate existences--creations--but objects
endowed with soul and sensation.

While we were thus conversing, Mary announced that breakfast was ready,
and I reluctantly accompanied him to the library. He almost compelled
me to eat, selecting for me dainty morsels to tempt my appetite.

Mr. Bristed evidently labored under some mental disquiet, which he
evinced by undue efforts at cheerfulness.

Breakfast being removed I sought to withdraw from the room, but he
requested me to remain, and dismissing Mary, seated himself in an easy
chair next the ottoman on which I rested, and warming his hands over
the fire, his eyes bent upon the blaze, said, with an abruptness that
was natural to him:

“I am not accustomed to concern myself about strangers, Miss Reef, but
in you I have felt a peculiar interest since the day we first met.
You will remember I warned you then that you were too young for the
responsibility which I foresaw awaited you. I feared at that time that
Richard, on seeing so bright a flower, would endeavor to snatch it from
its stem. My fears have been realized; you see I am acquainted with
what has taken place, and now the hour has come when you and I must
part.”

“Oh no,” cried I gaspingly, “not yet, not yet.”

“Miss Reef,” he demanded solemnly, “why will you delay? I understand
what you would say; you desire to see Richard again, but that can
never be; you have looked your last upon him in this life. I know his
magnetic influence over you; once again under that influence you are
lost!”

I did not like what he said. He overstepped the bounds of courtesy, I
thought. The warning which Richard had given me against him revived in
force and I recoiled from him, saying:

“Sir, your brother is my friend; I can listen to nothing in his
disfavor.”

He sighed, “Ah, Agnes, you are but a child. The sun just rising above
yonder horizon must soon be darkened; I see the gathering cloud and
would warn you of the approaching storm. Why will you turn from me when
I desire to help you?”

His musical voice was so sympathetic that it moved me deeply; but I
shook my head and answered passionately, “I cannot trust you. You wrong
him, and would compel me to wrong him too.”

“My child,” said he sadly, “I had hoped to have saved you from further
anguish, but perhaps it is best that you should know all. Come with me.”

He opened the door and led me to a room on the opposite side of the
hall. I knew it to be the room where Herbert slept.

“Let us go in,” he whispered.

We entered softly: the apartment was darkened, but a dainty crib which
occupied the centre of the floor could be dimly seen. As we stepped in,
his nurse, who was bending over the cot, moved with hushed footsteps
away to give us room.

There he lay, my dear, sick lamb! I was so glad to be permitted to see
him. But the result of no ordinary sickness met my eye.

Great purple rings had settled around his closed eyelids, his lips
were blue, his sweet mouth partly opened, he seemed to breathe with
difficulty. I could not speak. Mr. Bristed turned down the coverlet
from the little shoulders.

“Look, Miss Reef,” said he hoarsely, his voice quivering with
agitation, pointing to some hideous marks on the little sufferer’s
throat--“those are _his_ finger marks.”

I sickened. What crime was this that he hinted at so strangely? But the
insinuation was too incredible. The thought that he was working on my
credulity exasperated me.

“If you want me to leave your house, Mr. Bristed, command me and I will
go, but you cannot force me to believe this horrid inference.”

He must have felt the disdain with which I spurned him, for he turned
upon his heel and left the room.

I then spoke to Herbert. At the sound of my voice he moved, and I
seated myself by his side. Quietness seemed desirable, and I was not
inclined to break it. Now and then I moistened his lips with a little
wine and water. Seeing that I still sat by the crib, the nurse lay down
upon a settee and fell asleep.

Hours thus passed. The days were short and twilight came on rapidly.
Sitting there in the gathering gloom, I began to hum inadvertently a
little song which Herbert loved me to sing to him. Hearing my voice
chant his favorite ditty, the poor little creature stirred in his crib,
and his pale lips parted into a smile. Presently, in broken tones he
asked, “Is that Miss Reef?”

“Yes, Herbert, darling, I have come to sing to you,” said I, mastering
my emotions and chirruping more loudly his beloved song.

The effect seemed truly magical--he endeavored to raise up his little
body. “Oh sing it again,” he cried.

“Would you like to sit upon my knee?”

He nodded assent, and I made an effort to lift him up, but he was weak
and heavy, and I not sufficiently strong to sustain him. As he fell
back, my eyes caught sight again of those fearful marks. Some power
outside of myself forced me to ask, “Herbert, what ails your throat;
has any one hurt you?”

At the question, a tremor fearful to witness passed through his frame,
and looking at me with an expression of preternatural intelligence, he
whispered, “He tried to choke me.”

Stunned with horror at this again repeated assertion, I sank down and
buried my face in my hands. I could think but one thought, and that was
a wish that I were dead!



CHAPTER VII


But my nature would not permit me at such a crisis to remain passive
long. I must arouse myself and act. Calling the nurse to take my place,
I went to seek Mr. Bristed. I found him, as usual, in his library.

“Sir,” said I, “I am calm now; will you not explain to me this
frightful mystery? I will listen and thank you.”

He placed a chair for me to be seated, and taking my hand, said
gently:--

“Miss Reef--Agnes, you are too weak to hear this that you seek to know.”

“No, no,” I exclaimed, vehemently; “I am not weak; I must know all.”

He arose and paced the floor hurriedly for a few moments; then
muttering, “It is best--I will tell her,” he said:

“You have been surprised, no doubt, Agnes, at the frankness with which
I have expressed my opinion of Richard’s character--let me inform you
that he and I are not brothers. He is a half-brother, the offspring of
my father’s second marriage; though indeed I doubt if he have a right
to even that relationship. I have heard dark hints thrown out that my
father had been deceived, and that this child who claimed to be his son
should look in a lower quarter for his father. Richard’s mother was
not a woman of high moral principle, and he partakes of her nature. My
father provided for him well, but as I was the elder son the bulk of
his large property became mine by inheritance; but Richard has always
made the Hall his home when in England--indeed, he has a legal right
during his lifetime to the use of the room he occupies. He has not,
however, often availed himself of this right since I have had his son
Herbert under my protection.”

“His son Herbert?” I repeated, mechanically.

“Yes, poor child, his son; though the boy has always been taught to
call him uncle. Neither Richard nor myself desire the relationship to
be known, and it is only in hope of serving you that I reveal it.”

“Richard married?” I said, falteringly.

“Ah, Agnes, there are many women whom he should never have seen, as
he could not marry them,” said he, with the slow determination of a
man resolved on uttering a repulsive truth. Herbert’s mother was a
beautiful but penniless orphan of good family, who visited this house
some years since in the capacity of companion to our great-aunt.

“During that visit I became enamoured with her, and we were secretly
engaged in marriage. It was before the death of my father, and I was
not my own master; but I loved her truly, and meant well by her, only
desiring her to wait till I should be free to please myself. But
Richard stepped in between me and my happiness. He stole this girl’s
heart from me; gained her love as he has endeavored to obtain yours,
by flattery and dissimulation you see I am not wily and smooth enough
to please women--but also he destroyed her peace under promise of
marriage; leaving her soon after and going abroad without acquainting
her with his purpose.

“I was temporarily from home when this occurred. On returning in the
course of a month, Richard fled, as I have stated; but I was ignorant
then of the cause, and it was not till in the agony of shame she came
to me for help with her secret, that I became aware of his perfidy.

“I need not tell you that I gave her all the aid in my power; her
child Herbert was born and secretly cared for. When he was about two
years old, the great-aunt of whom I have spoken died, leaving a large
proportion of her property to Alice, of whose misfortune she had never
dreamed.

“Wealth came to the unfortunate girl too late. The shock she had
received from Richard’s deceit had preyed upon her health, and she was
failing rapidly, when he, hearing of her good fortune, returned home.

“With his specious address he might have regained his old ascendancy
over her had I not interfered. You know well, Agnes, his peculiar gift
of fascination. I believe he could by some unexplainable psychological
process make any great wrong appear right to a woman. But I induced her
to bequeath her wealth to Herbert, and secure it, for a time at least,
beyond Richard’s control--and he owes me a grudge for it.

“Herbert, she left under my care, unless, of his own free will, he
chose to reside with Richard, who in that case was to become his
guardian; and in the event of Herbert’s death before reaching his
majority, the whole property was to revert to Richard Bristed. You see
she loved him still. Unjust but womanlike, her love was stronger than
her judgment.

“Well,” said he, after eyeing me thoughtfully, “you listen as if you
did not rightly comprehend what I have been saying!”

I was indeed stunned by his communication. Could it be, I thought,
with suppressed fear, that the shadowy figure which had haunted my
bed-chamber and had visited me in dreams was the same wronged Alice?
Had she arisen from her grave beneath the granite of the church-yard
to warn me? Or are the dead jealous of their rights? Do they cling to
their earthly love? I queried. But when he spoke I shook off these
thoughts that were rising like mist to obscure my judgment, and
answered, “_I_ am. I am listening; proceed.”

“Agnes, through your influence Richard has hoped to obtain possession
of Herbert and control over his fortune. He has thought to entrap you
as he did Alice, and through his power over you has calculated to carry
out the project of his prolific brain.”

Till this moment I had listened silently to his strange recital, but
I could not brook this insinuation. The story, to my mind, did not
appear clear. How could Richard expect to obtain, through my agency,
possession of a son whom he had never acknowledged? Tis true I
remembered him to have said that he feared I would miss my pupil very
much. He had asked playfully what would Herbert do without me, but he
had not suggested taking the child away with us, and therefore Mr.
Bristed’s charge appeared to my mind unfounded, and I told him so.

“Ah, my child!” he replied, “you know not the devising power of this
man. He has an agent here in this place, in the shape of old Crisp, the
hunchback. It has been his plan, under promise of marriage, to decoy
you from this house; he would probably have left his child to Crisp’s
good agency, with orders to join you. Herbert loves you, and would
have gone willingly in your company, but alone with Richard he would
not have moved one step. Once out of my reach in some distant city,
he would have had the reins in his own hand. It was by an unexpected,
but I hope fortunate chance, that I overheard a conversation to this
effect between him and the deformed servant. I could not ascertain the
day set for this adventure, but I surmised that it was at no remote
date, and I have kept alert. You have avoided me, Miss Reef, and I have
been obliged to watch your movements distantly. Not from suspicion of
you, for I know you to be pure and honorable, but because you are under
my protection, and because”--he hesitated--I wondered what was coming
next. I had a presentiment that he was about to make an avowal which I
ought to shun, but before I could evade him he turned suddenly toward
me, his face white with emotion, and continued--“I love you, Agnes,
though it is no time now to speak of my passion, and have watched over
you as a father, a brother, a _lover_ would watch.”

This announcement affected me more than I care to confess, considering
I did not return his love, but it was the allusion to his sheltering
care that moved me.

“Yes, I have watched over you; orphan that you are, you need some
guardian care. I knew by your frequent journeys to the village, by your
cloistering in your own apartment, and more than all, by your speaking
countenance, that you were preparing for some great event in your life.

“Last night I could not sleep; I laid my head upon my pillow, but
finding it impossible to close my eyes I arose and dressed. Sitting by
my window I thought I heard a commotion in your room. I listened until
my surmises grew into certainty. The hour was midnight, and your door,
which at that season is usually closed like a cloister-gate, swung on
its hinges.

“This alarmed me; I unlocked my door and looked out. Soon a hasty step
retreating from your chamber met my ear. Descending the stairs, this
untimely visitor entered the room where Herbert lay sleeping. A strange
suspicion came over me. Can the intruder be Richard? I thought. If so,
what was he doing at that hour of the night? I seized a lighted candle
and rushed to the boy’s apartment, and there I found Richard, maddened,
and beside himself with liquor and frenzy. I was just in time to save
Herbert’s life from his insane fury.

“I know not what had occurred between you and him, Agnes, but this I
know, he had failed in some diabolical plot he had contemplated. Chance
or a friendly Providence had thwarted his purpose. I had him in my
power, and compelled him to leave the house, not to return until you
have been removed where he will never find you.

“I cannot leave my beautiful bird, my pet dove, where the charms of
this wily serpent may ensnare her.”

He ceased. My eyes were dry, my heart turned to stone. I arose, and
mechanically moved toward the door.

“Where are you going, Agnes? Tell me of your plans; regard me as your
friend, I beg.”

“Take me away--take me away,” I cried hysterically; “I must go! Oh, oh,
oh!” I should have fallen, but he caught me in his arms.



CHAPTER VIII.


On reviving came the dread feeling that I must go. Go whither? I had
no home. I could not return to my uncle who had cast me adrift. The
inquisitive glance of his grim housekeeper would annihilate me. But go
I must, and that speedily.

With weary head and aching heart I commenced packing my little
wardrobe. My bridal attire I hastily covered from sight that it might
remain until time and mildew should obliterate it. My dream of love was
past. I felt that my youth and beauty were buried in that crushed pile
of broken flowers, pale silk, and dishevelled lace.

I had concluded my work, and was tying my bonnet-strings, when a knock
at the door announced Mr. Bristed. He appeared surprised at seeing me
arranged for my journey.

“So soon, Agnes?” said he. “You are not yet able to leave.”

But as I expressed very emphatically my ability and determination to
start immediately, he saw expostulation would be useless.

“Well,” said he, “let me hear where you contemplate going.”

I told him I should take the railway or coach to some point, I cared
not where; any distant city or village from whence I could advertise
for another situation. I was too hopeless then to care whither I went.

“And do you think I would permit you to leave me thus at random, going,
you know not where, without any preconceived plans? Oh my poor, poor
child, to be thrown thus upon the world!”

He walked the floor several times, apparently in great agitation; then,
suddenly pausing, said abruptly, almost violently, “It must not be!
Agnes, don’t go,” lowering his voice, and placing his hand gently on my
shoulder; “stay with me--become my wife. I love you and will cherish
you. No rude blast that my arm can shield you from shall assail you. My
life has been one of gloom, you can render it one of sunshine. Stay,
dear one, oh, stay!” and in his transport he seized my hands.

“What do you mean, Mr. Bristed?” said I, recoiling from him. “Surely,
you must forget yourself and the circumstances which have so recently
occurred; you have accused me of loving your brother, how, then, can I
transfer my affections to you? Oh, you are cruel, cruel!”

“Forgive me,” said he, penitently; “I will do anything for you,
Agnes--take you away, if you wish; only let me go with you and see that
you are properly cared for.”

I shook my head.

“Richard may seek to find you; you may fall again into his evil hands
if you insist on going thus alone.”

“Mr. Bristed,” said I, “thus far I have acted as you directed. I will
depart at your solicitation; but further than this, I must be free. If
Richard seeks me out, and I can aid him, I will do so. Degraded and
fallen though he be, my love will not shrink from him. I will help him
to rise.”

“You are a noble woman, Agnes,” he said with a sad smile, “God protect
you!” and he left me.

As he went out, I heard him order the carriage. The serving-man came
for my luggage, and I summoned courage to pay a farewell visit to
Herbert.

The poor little invalid became very much excited at seeing me, and
clung so tightly about my neck that it was with effort I could leave.
I did not then inform him of my intended departure, and with an aching
heart and forced smile I parted from the dear sufferer.

I met Mary in the hall; she told me Mr. Bristed had ordered her to
accompany me on my journey.

I did not want her company, my mind craved solitude; I would not have
her. I sought her master, and told him so. “At a time like this I must
be alone,” said I, excitedly; “I want no spy upon my actions. I will go
wherever you wish me to go, but let me proceed alone.”

“Well,” said he, musingly, “I desire but to serve you. Go to the town
of M., present this letter according to its directions. You refuse my
further aid, but if ever you need a friend, send for me; otherwise, I
will never trouble you.”

I answered that I would do as he requested, and with a heavy heart
entered his carriage, which was waiting to drive me to the railway
station.



CHAPTER IX.


I will pass over my journey, and the lonely, miserable days which
succeeded my arrival in M. I made fruitless effort to obtain service,
and waited and watched for an application in my dreary lodgings until
my small hoard of wages was nigh exhausted.

I had been in the city a fortnight, broken in spirit and dejected
by want of success, when I happened to bethink me of the letter Mr.
Bristed had given me.

I took it from its undisturbed nook in my trunk, and having read the
superscription, set about to find the party to whom it was addressed.
The direction led me to a large manufacturing establishment.

The gentleman to whom it was written appeared to be a foreigner. Having
presented the epistle to him, he perused it hastily, then taking my
hand with great eagerness, he exclaimed:

“O Mees! I am greatly honored. Mons. Bristeed is my very good friend;
I well acquaint with him in Paris. I congratulate you on having one
so grand a gentleman for your acquaintance. He tell me you look for a
school.”

“Yes, sir,” said I, glad to find my tastes had been studied; “I do
desire a school.”

“I will assist with pleasure, Mees. Be seated; in a few moments I will
accompany you.”

I sat down, wondering whither the gay, loquacious gentleman would lead
me.

He soon rejoined me, hat in hand.

“Will you accept my escort, Mees; the place is near by,” said he,
reading the note. “No. 14 B----, street. Will you walk, or shall I call
a cab?”

“I will walk,” I answered, scarcely knowing what reply was expected. As
we turned the corner of the street I ventured to ask:

“Is it to some school you are guiding me?”

“Ah, Mees,” said he, rubbing his hands together and laughing, “it is
some great secret. Mons. Bristeed would surprise you. Have a leetle
patience, and all will be divulged.”

We walked rapidly for a space and then paused before a handsome
building.

Entering the courtyard, we rang the silver bell. A servant answered our
summons and invited us in. Seated in the drawing-room, I heard the buzz
of many voices.

“Is it an academy?” I whispered to Monsieur Pilot, my conductor. He
smiled encouragingly.

“This is a young ladies’ seminary, Mees.”

Before I could question further, the room door opened, and a lady of
tall, imposing figure entered.

Monsieur Pilot commenced a vehement conversation with her in French.
She responded in the same tongue. The dialogue ended, he turned to me
and said:

“Mees Reef, permit me to introduce you to Madame Fontenelle.”

Madame smiled very graciously upon me, and then recommenced the
gesticulation and babble of the two. At length she appeared satisfied
with the understanding at which they arrived. I was growing uneasy at
their prolonged volubility, when Monsieur Pilot pirouetted up to me,
and said:

“Mees Reef, I beg to congratulate you. Madame consents to transfer
this mansion into your hands, She accepts our recommendation and that
of your own intelligent countenance. Mons. Bristeed was not mistaken
in the impression you would make. I wish you joy in having become the
proprietress of this splendid institution.”

“How,” I cried in astonishment; “I proprietor? I do not understand.
Please explain.”

Madame looked blandly on; my remarks were evidently unintelligible to
her.

“It is a very onerous and responsible position,
Mademoiselle”--shrugging her shoulders--“I should not like to advise
you. Do you comprehend the extent of the undertaking? I should not be
willing to trust my pupils in timid hands.”

Her remarks stung me, and gave, I presume, the favorable turn to my
destiny, for I felt the power to undertake a task which I would before
have shrunk from.

“I will do my duty in all cases to the best of my ability, madame!” was
my brief reply.

“Ah, you do not comprehend, Madame,” said Monsieur Pilot, coming
briskly to the rescue. “This is a surprise to Mees Reef. My very good
friend Monsieur Bristeed has not apprised the young lady of his bounty.
I have his commission to purchase for her this establishment, which he
is aware you desire to dispose of, Madame. His recommendation of the
young lady is surely sufficient.”

“The whole establishment?” I asked, with an effort at composure.

“Yes,” replied Madame. “I am obliged to start for the West Indies, and
must dispose of all. The present instructors are thoroughly competent
for their various positions; they merely need a supervisor. You appear
young, but I presume experience has fitted you for the office.”

“Eminently so, eminently,” answered Monsieur Pilot promptly, as if he
had been guardian of my reputation for years. “We will consider the
arrangements as complete, my clear Madame. I will call tomorrow and
close the transaction. _Bon jour_, Madame.”

And with rapid strides he hurried me away.



CHAPTER X.


The school became mine. By vigilance and perseverance, I not only
retained the pupils Madame had transmitted to my care, but added many
thereto.

Monsieur Pilot, lively and friendly, visited me frequently. I liked the
little Frenchman; his gaiety served to divert my mind from reflections
on the past, which like spectres would sometimes stalk grimly before me
when unoccupied, I sought the quiet of my own chamber.

With my increasing success, my pupils’ interest fully occupied every
moment of my time. Meantime, not a line or word reached me from Bristed
Hall. Upon my installment as proprietor of Madame’s seminary, I had
written to Mr. Bristed, thanking him for his kindness, and informing
him that I should take measures to repay the expenditures he had
incurred in my behalf, by placing quarterly in the hands of Monsieur
Pilot a sum such as I could spare from my income, by means of which I
hoped in time to repay my external indebtedness.

The only reply I received to this letter was a peremptory refusal, sent
through Monsieur Pilot, to accept any return.

I had been more than a year in my new home. Constant employment had
developed my mind, and I flattered myself on having acquired a wisdom
and sedateness such as ten years of quiet experience could not have
given me. But of this I was lamentably mistaken.

Of my silly yielding to circumstances which follow, the reader must not
judge too harshly. I was still but an immature woman, not yet twenty;
the glamour of youth still hung over me. I craved human love, and took
the first that presented itself, just as any other ardent, imaginative
girl in my place would have done.

One night late in autumn, when the sharp winds were already giving
signals of the coming winter, of leafless trees and frozen ground,
feeling the usual sadness which accompanies this season of the year,
I walked out upon the piazza in front of the house, looking down upon
the street. I thought the keen air would put my blood in more active
circulation, and thus dispel from my mind the brown and yellow fancies
that filled it as the dying leaves of October strewed the ground.

My pupils had all retired to their rooms, and relieved of my charge,
my thoughts were free to recreate. I walked quickly back and forth,
drawing in long draughts of the invigorating air, and reviewing the
morning’s duties. While thus engaged, my attention was arrested by the
appearance of a tall man on the opposite side of the street, standing
still and watching me. As he caught my startled gaze he lifted his hat
and bowed, and before I had time to reflect on his strange proceedings,
had crossed the street and was standing on the pavement below.

“Agnes!”

My God, he called me by name! My blood became like ice. Shaking from
head to foot I covered my eyes with my hands, and would have run in,
but the whistling wind brought the cry again:

“Agnes! Let me speak with you.”

Quick as the words were uttered the dark figure mounted the stone
steps, only the little iron railing of the balcony dividing us.

I knew then who it was.

“Will you open the door, or shall I?” said a voice which I remembered
too well.

I saw no alternative, without disturbing the neighborhood and betraying
myself; so, like a criminal, I stepped softly to the hall and unlocked
the door. He came in with a light, free step, and seated himself upon a
couch with the ease of an old friend and accomplished gentleman. It was
Richard Bristed!

I will not detail what passed at this interview. But I fell again under
his fascination; his magnetic presence lulled my faculties, and, alas,
I must relate that this nocturnal intrusion was followed quickly by
others!

He assumed his old ascendancy over me. The past became like an
unpleasant dream in my mind, dimly remembered, but never distinctly
recalled.

Occasionally, however, a sharp doubt obtruded itself, and roused me for
an instant. One evening I ventured to ask:

“Richard, why are your visits so brief, and made only in the night?”

“Why?” he repeated, as if startled by the suddenness of the question,
then adding carelessly: “Because you always have that deuced old
fellow, Monsieur Pilot, running here. I am not very jealous, yet it
would torment me to meet one who dares raise his thoughts to my Agnes.
He wants to marry you. Do dismiss him!”

This conjecture proved true, and I was obliged to give a cold rebuff to
the man who had befriended me. It is possible Richard Bristed did not
care to be recognized by his brother’s agent, but I did not think of
this at that time.



CHAPTER XI.


After this affair happened Richard visited me more openly, and my
pupils, when by chance they met him, were charmed with the stranger. He
was only known as “Mr. Richard.” “Call me that, Agnes, I hate the name
of Bristed. Introduce me to your friends as Mr. Richard,” he said, and
I had done so.

About this time he explained satisfactorily, to my credulous mind, the
cause of his sudden retreat from Bristed Hall, and gave me reason to
believe that the statements his brother had made concerning him were
untrue and evil in design.

“My brother, as you have surely discovered, Agnes, is a cold, proud
man, and as I was not his equal in wealth or position he selected an
heiress, both old and disagreeable, whom he designed me to marry. Your
youth and beauty he intended to appropriate to himself. I feared if I
made him acquainted with my purpose to unite myself to you he would
frustrate all my wishes, and when I discovered that he knew of my
plans, I determined to forestall him by making you my wife that very
night. I intended to have gone through the form of marriage, which the
next day could have been legalized, for I feared the influence of his
wealth and position upon your unsophisticated mind.

“However, you refused to trust me, and I left your room maddened by
anger and the fear of losing you.

“I met my brother in the hall-way; he said Herbert was ill, and I
accused him of trying to injure the boy that he might defraud me.
Sharp words passed between us. I left him, and in blind haste mounted
my horse, thinking I would ride over to N., a distance of some twenty
miles, to get the clergyman of the parish, an intimate friend of mine,
to drive with me to the Hall and perform the important ceremony.

“The ride I accomplished in a few hours, but I found my friend absent
from home. The excitement and disappointment, added to the severe cold
to which I was exposed, broke me down, and I was taken suddenly ill.
When I recovered, I returned to Bristed Hall only to find my priceless
bird flown, and no clue to be had to her whereabouts.

“As to the tale about Herbert, that is all a _ruse_; he is not my
son, and only distantly connected with either of us. He is heir to a
considerable estate, and Mr. Bristed is managing so that upon Herbert’s
decease (and poor child, he cannot live long) the inheritance will fall
to his lot.”

Such was his version of the story, and as I loved him I believed it
willingly.



CHAPTER XII.


In his gay society the winter passed quickly. With the opening spring
he departed--on business, as he said. I felt his loss, but as it was a
busy time with me it did not affect me as it otherwise would have done.
Many changes were being made in my seminary. I was obliged to employ
workmen to add new dormitories to the great house, for pupils were
crowding in from every point.

The reputation of the school was growing; I was immersed in business.
Some months elapsed; I ceased to hear from Richard, almost to think of
him, amid the activity of the spring term.

“Circumstances,” some say, “are the Devil,” and I almost believe
that saying. While employed I was happy, my mind well balanced and
energetic; but unfortunately for me, summer vacation drew near. It came
finally; a sultry sun, parched earth, and scorched verdure made life in
the city undesirable. My pupils fled to the country and to their homes
until the fall session, and I was left alone. Even my servants were
absent, all save one.

Shut up in the empty mansion alone with my own thoughts, I was growing
morbidly lonesome.

It was at this unpropitious moment that Richard Bristed returned.



CHAPTER XIII.


He arranged quiet strolls to the country--little excursions here and
there with himself as my sole companion--and many sweet happy days of
unsullied pleasure I passed in his society.

One sultry morning, to my delight, he came in an open carriage, saying
that the atmosphere was so heated he would drive me out of town to a
charming little village with which he was familiar.

The prospect of such a jaunt was to me indeed agreeable; and as he
liked to see me in becoming dress, I arrayed myself in white, placed
a fillet of pale blue ribbon round my hair and a bouquet of blue
forget-me-nots in the bosom of my dress, and thus adorned set forth,
sitting by Richard’s side.

I was as happy as a young queen; all the black suspicions which had
darkened my horizon were absorbed in the fierce heat of that summer
morning. His beauty, his fascinating smile, his lively conversation,
filled me with rapture.

Arrived at the village, we stopped at a small but pretty tavern and
alighted. While I entered the dwelling Richard drove his horses under
shelter. He soon joined me, looking much disconcerted.

“Agnes, my darling, what shall we do? We cannot ride back to-night; the
carriage is out of order, and I fear the horse is injured by the heat
and rapid driving.”

“O Richard, I must return home to-night!” I answered decidedly.

“Well, I will see what can be done, but we will rest awhile and take
some refreshments.”

A delightful half hour passed while we were regaling ourselves with
country fare and looking at the strange place from the window of the
little inn. Then Richard proposed that we should walk out while waiting
for repairs to our vehicle. Together we strolled through the quiet
lanes and open commons till we came upon a pretty, unpretending church,
half hidden in ivy and creeping vines. The door stood open. “Come,”
said he, “let us go in.” I followed him in. To my surprise I discovered
a clergyman in his robes at the altar. Richard whispered in my ear some
words which I could not understand and their import I could only guess
at, but his tender manner brought the hot blood to my face.

“Agnes,” he continued, speaking with quiet determination; “you must
be mine; everything is in readiness. We cannot return to-night; Fate
ordains it!”

It did appear to me that Fate, as he said, ordained the events which
followed that country drive. All the love and sentiment of my nature
was aroused; but reason told my intoxicated senses that I must not act
without forethought, so I shook my head to his passionate urgency and
endeavored to withdraw. But my companion pressed me gently back into an
open pew, and hastened past me up the aisle.

A rapid conversation then took place between himself and the clergyman,
who, after casting his eyes in my direction, went to his desk and took
up his prayer-book.

Richard returned with quick steps to where I was sitting.

“Come,” said he, smiling; “he is waiting.”

Startled and trembling, I made no answer save an effort to reach the
door.

“For heaven’s sake, Agnes, do not make a scene! Recover your usual
good sense. Do you not see that it is best?” whispered Richard, with
earnestness almost fierce.

And so hurried, flushed and doubting, overcome with heat and
excitement, I permitted myself to be led to the altar.

The ceremony soon ended. As the clerk shut his book and we turned to
depart, I could not realize that this abrupt, informal marriage was a
reality. As I passed down the aisle, a white, fluttering, impalpable,
and yet clearly-defined form arose from one of the empty seats, and
unobstructed by carved wood or heavy upholstery, passed out through
frame and plaster! The slight figure, the golden hair, I remembered too
well--it was that of the _ghost of Bristed Hall_!

I clenched Richard’s arm so that he muttered an oath, and said sharply,
“My God, Agnes, what are you doing?”

“Did you not see that figure? It passed straight through the wall,” I
whispered in affright.

“Move on--none of your d--d nonsense, Agnes,” said Richard, scowling;
then hastily adding, “Excuse me, love, you confuse me. My happiness
makes me forget myself.”

My mind surged with conflicting emotions. I felt a secret joy in the
knowledge that I was united to the man I loved. This romantic, half
run-away match pleased the romance of my nature, and yet I was unable
to resist the feeling that I had done wrong. A strange foreboding of
evil intruded upon my joy.

Richard that evening was gay almost to wildness. “O Agnes! Agnes! we
have outwitted them, the fools! They thought they had conquered me, but
you are mine, and I have won!”

He talked so disconnectedly, I thought he had taken too much wine.
Indeed, to this he owned.

“I could drink flask after flask of it, I am so happy!” he exclaimed.

We were happy that night and drove home in the cool of the morning.

It was arranged that our marriage should for the present be kept
private, as Richard thought if it were known it might disorganize my
school.



CHAPTER XIV.


We had been wedded but two weeks when one morning Richard asked me to
show him my deed of the property.

“How strange,” said he, as he looked it over. “Do you know, Agnes,
before I wedded you I might have married many a woman of wealth, but I
would not unite myself with a lady who would not honor me by giving me
sole control of all her possessions.”

“Well, Richard,” answered I, laughing, “you can control mine if you
like. It matters little to me who holds the deed, so long as my
dominion over the young ladies is not invaded.”

“That is what I expected of your, loving nature, Agnes, and yet I
suppose you would hesitate to convey your property to me.”

“No; why should I?” I exclaimed. “I will go with you to an attorney
this moment, if you desire it.”

“Well, come, we shall see; get your bonnet,” said he gaily.

I tied on my bonnet, and accompanied him down the street into a little
dingy office in a narrow thoroughfare.

At the door, laying his hand upon my shoulder, he said jokingly:

“Agnes, go back, I was only trying you; I wanted to see if you meant
what you said.”

“Of course I meant it, and I will not go back till it is done.”

“Well, well, you must have your own way, I see!” and with a gay,
exulting smile he led me into the office.

I signed the paper giving to him the house and lands, and was glad when
it was done, for I felt that it might atone for any suspicion or doubt
of his goodness which had crossed my mind, for he had made me very
happy since our marriage.

I returned to my school and its duties. In the interval between the
recitations, I had time to reflect. I had acted impulsively, and
perhaps unfairly. What right had I to give away a property given to me
for an especial purpose?

Had I done right? That was the question which annoyed me--the question
which constantly thrust itself before me during the live-long day.
My sleep that night was disturbed. The form of the elder Mr. Bristed
appeared in my dreams. He seemed to reproach me by his looks, and when
I endeavored to speak to him, vanished from my sight.

Richard had left me after my signing the paper. He told me he was
obliged to leave town on business, and I had no one to council with. My
own thoughts startled me; I became nervous, and finally quite ill.



CHAPTER XV.


At length, after two days of unrest and self-condemnation, I quieted
myself with the assurance that I would go to the Hall and see Mr.
Bristed; then also I could see dear Herbert, to whom my heart went
often out with longing. His name was never mentioned between Richard
and myself. I avoided the subject; a dread which I could not overcome
forbade me to speak of it. But now a strange, irrepressible desire to
see the child filled my mind.

Yielding to this intense feeling, I arranged my affairs, and taking a
coach, set off early in the morning for the train which would convey
me to Bristed Hall. To my astonishment I met Richard at the depot.
Overwhelmed with surprise at the encounter, and ashamed to confess
my intended journey, I made some petty excuse for being there, and
returned home again. Richard handed me into the cab, but excused
himself from accompanying me as he had a friend awaiting him.

That day, after luncheon, taking me aside he informed me that a noble
lord had placed in his charge a lad who was partially idiotic and sole
heir to an immense estate; that it was necessary he should have at his
disposal a room in the upper part of the building in which he could
keep him from observation, as it had been discovered the sight of
strangers increased the boy’s malady, and perfect seclusion would be
the only means of restoring him to reason.

I immediately directed a servant to put in order one of the rooms in
a remote portion of the dwelling; this was done, and towards dusk
Richard, who had left the house, returned in a handsome coach with the
poor, helpless, deranged boy. From the window I saw them alight. A
slight, tall figure, wrapped in a cloak, descended from the coach. This
undoubtedly was the afflicted youth. He walked so feebly I should have
hastened to his assistance, but Richard’s command that I should not
permit him to see strange faces withheld me.

However, I stood in the partly opened door, hoping I should be called.
As the muffled figure passed me on the way up the staircase I vainly
sought to catch a glimpse of the youth’s face, but he turned neither to
the right nor left.

Richard, however, saw me and shook his head, indicating with an angry,
peremptory gesture, that I should withdraw.

For days I felt a strange curiosity about this youth, but as Richard
gave my inquisitiveness no food, and conducted his attentions to his
charge in an orderly, business-like manner, I dismissed the subject
from my mind.



CHAPTER XVI.


Nothing new transpired the remainder of those autumn days. November
was now close upon us. About this time I remarked a sudden falling
off of my hitherto prosperous school. Determined to know the cause, I
inquired of one of my assistants, in whom I confided, if she was aware
of the cause of this decline. She hesitated to reply to my question,
but when pressed for her opinion she informed me that my pupils were
dissatisfied with my relations with Mr. Richard, and also with his
conduct respecting the youth who had been imprisoned on the upper
floor. They asserted they had heard groans proceeding from the room he
occupied, and feared to remain in a house where mystery and secrecy
were rife.

I was astonished and alarmed at this information. You, reader, will be
surprised to learn that I was at that time more ignorant of events that
transpired around me than my own pupils. But I was not of a suspicious
nature, and happy in my new life of love, the few weeks that had
elapsed since my marriage passed as in a delicious dream.

But now I was thoroughly aroused and ready to return to duty. I thanked
the teacher for her information and then dismissed her, as I wished to
be alone.

When left to the quiet of my own thoughts I reflected how best to
proceed in the matter. Richard was not at home, I could not question
him, and he had the key of his ward’s room with him.

I finally concluded I would go to the door of this private room and
listen if I could detect any unusual noise from within.

With trepidation I ascended the back staircase leading to the secluded
apartment.

Near the door I paused against the alcove of the great window that
lighted the hall, and looked out. The sky was dull and leaden; a scanty
snow was falling, and the wind, blowing furiously, drove it hither and
yon. I stood for some moments looking out upon the gloomy prospect so
in accordance with my state of mind. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of
Richard crossing the street. I started when I saw him and was about
to retreat, when a thought arrested me. Why should I hurry away? Was
I afraid of Richard? Was he not the proper person to consult in my
dilemma? I would let him know that I desired to enter the room!

So thinking, I approached the door and tried it. It was locked, but at
the sound of the turning knob a sad, dreary moan arose from within--a
cry of mingled fear and weakness. The sound of that moaning voice
seemed familiar to my ear. What could it mean?

As I stood thus in suspense, listening for further development of the
mystery, I heard a step close beside me. I turned, and discovered
Richard. His fair, handsome face scowled at me fiendishly; his
countenance seemed transformed; his eyes gleamed like those of a
panther.

“What are you doing here?” said he, laying a heavy hand upon me and
speaking through his set teeth. “Go down stairs!” and he pushed me from
him violently.

I suppose his physical power and angry mood awed me, for I forgot my
determination to solve the mystery--forgot my own rights, and hurried
precipitately down the stairs.



CHAPTER XVII.


With my mind filled with dreadful forebodings, I reached my own private
chamber, entered it, and bolted the door, that I might consider,
undisturbed, the best course of action to pursue under these fearful
suspicions that haunted me. Hour after hour passed as I sat thus
absorbed in thought which seemed to turn my very hair gray from its
intensity.

I heard Richard descend the stairs and go out into the street. Not
long; after this the door-bell rang violently and the servant knocked
at my door to say that a gentleman in the drawing-room wished to see
me. Smoothing my hair and arranging my toilet, I obeyed the summons,
but started back on discovering the stranger to be no other than Mr.
Bristed. He pressed my hands and said:

“Agnes, can I converse with you in private here a few moments?”

My first surprise over, I answered, “Come with me; we will not be
disturbed here.” Withdrawing to a small room adjoining, he drew forward
an ottoman and seating himself beside me, said:

“Agnes, Herbert is missing; can you tell me where I can find him?”

“Herbert missing!” said I with a shudder.

“Yes,” said he, “I have heard, Agnes, that a gentleman visits you whom
I surmise to be my brother, and, if so, I thought perhaps you would
know through him of Herbert’s place of hiding.”

“Has Herbert left you?” said I. “Tell me--what do you mean, Mr.
Bristed?”

“Yes,” said he; “some few weeks since, I left the Hall to visit an old
friend. I expected to be absent a fortnight. While I was gone Herbert
disappeared, the servants knew not how nor where. At first, hoping
to discover that he had strayed off of his own accord and would soon
be found, they searched the country in every direction, but in vain.
They were at last obliged to send me word of his disappearance. You
can imagine my sensations on arriving at the Hall and finding the dear
child’s room vacant. I made inquiries in every quarter, sent couriers
out in all parts of the neighboring country, but no trace of him could
be found.

“I at length thought of you, that you might have seen or heard of my
brother. He is the one person likely to be concerned in the singular
disappearance of Herbert.”

I trembled from head to foot. What could I say? Evidently he was not
aware of my marriage with his brother. How should I act? Richard might
come in at any moment and discover himself. I recollected him to have
incidentally mentioned that the following day he had an engagement at
the race-course with a friend; I therefore said hurriedly:

“Mr. Bristed, I have seen Richard recently, but tonight can tell you
nothing further. If you will call to-morrow morning at eleven, I will
tell you all I know.”

He seized my hand, exclaiming, “Tell me to-night, Agnes, and set my
mind at ease.”

My head seemed on fire--I groaned audibly.

“I can tell you nothing of a certainty. It is all surmise, and my brain
is distracted to-night. Give me till to-morrow.”

“I will, Agnes; I feel that I can confide in you.”

“Now go,” I replied. “My position is such that your presence here will
only destroy the purpose of your visit.”

He clasped my hand in his and left me.

The next morning before leaving for the racecourse, while adjusting his
neck-tie, Richard said:

“I fear we shall lose our imbecile pupil up-stairs, Ag. I brought a
doctor in to see him last night, and he says he cannot live long.”

I could not see his face, for he looked persistently away.

“If he is ill, I must see him, Richard,” I managed to reply.

“Oh, no!” said he; “I thought you were foolishly scared to hear him
groan yesterday, but if he does not get better I will send him home to
his friends.” This he said carelessly, as he walked out of the room
humming a lively air.

How coolly he talks about the lad! thought I, half ashamed of my
suspicions. Perhaps I have wronged him. I have been too impetuous in my
surmises.



CHAPTER XVIII.


The time drew near for his brother’s arrival. He was prompt to the hour.

“Well, Agnes,” said he, “I have passed a sleepless night. I hope you
will relieve my mind of its anxiety.”

“Mr. Bristed,” said I, covering my eyes with my hand, for I could not
endure his eager gaze, “I must first tell you I am married to your
brother Richard.”

“Married to Richard!” he exclaimed, starting up violently agitated; and
seizing my shoulder with nervous gripe he set me off from him at arm’s
length--“You married to Richard! why, Agnes, that cannot be; has he not
a wife now living in France? But be calm, child,” said he, “be calm,”
patting me gently on the head; “perhaps I am misinformed; we will talk
of this hereafter. Now about Herbert. Tell me what you know.”

This question recalled me. I then informed him of the idiotic pupil
who had been received in the house about a fortnight since, and how my
suspicions as to his identity had been aroused the day previous.

He could scarcely wait till I had finished my account. “Come, quick!
come! show me the way to the room!”

I led him up the stairs in the direction of the suspected chamber. As
we neared the door a low moan could be heard distinctly.

“O my God, it is Herbert!” he exclaimed. “Quick, where is the key?”

“I have no key--you must pry the lock open.” No sooner said than
done--he burst open the door and entered. I followed. Alas! our
surmises proved too true! There upon the couch lay the wasted form of
poor Herbert.

As he recognized us his wan face lighted up with an angelic smile, and
he endeavored to raise himself at our coming, but he was too weak, and
his head sank nerveless back upon the pillow.

Silently and hushed, as in the chamber of death, we stepped to his
bedside. He held out his thin hand to his uncle, who clasped it between
his own, and, kneeling by his couch, bowed his head and sobbed aloud.
His first moments of bitter grief subsiding, he said to me, “Send for
some wine.” Then, stroking the child’s fair forehead, he groaned, “O
Herbert, Herbert, have I found you at last, sick and alone!”

Herbert attempted to reply, but his voice was weak and faint; we could
not distinguish his words. A servant brought the wine, and I moistened
his colorless lips with it. How I felt, it is useless to describe.
Words would fail to express my terror.

The rich, warm juice of the grape and the application of stimulants
seemed to restore him to life. His first effort on recovering was to
call me by name. I answered by bending over him and bathing his pale
forehead. At this he smiled, pleased and happy.

“Now, Herbert, my poor boy,” said Mr. Bristed, “if it will not fatigue
you too much to talk, tell us how you came here. Who brought you? Why
did you leave Bristed Hall?”

“Uncle Richard brought me,” said he, heaving a melancholy sigh. “He
came after you had gone, uncle, and told me that Agnes Reef was sick
and going to die, and wanted to see me and you, and that if you were
home you would let me go, because you loved her; and I thought so too.
He gave me this ring which Agnes sent so I would know it was her.” And,
saying this, he held up a thin, transparent hand, and there, indeed,
upon it gleamed one of my rings, so loose that the wasted fingers could
scarce retain it.

“My ring! So Richard gave you that,” said I, with scorn I could not
conceal, even in the sick chamber.

“Yes,” he murmured, “and he told me he would bring me straight back
before uncle got home, and he brought me here into this room, but Agnes
was not here. I could not find her. Then he locked the door and would
not let me out, and I have been hungry and cold. And when I cried, he
would kick me, and that made me sick, I think. Do take me home, uncle,
before he comes, and I will never go away again!”



CHAPTER XIX.


During this recital Mr. Bristed and I exchanged glances of horror. We
could not speak. When it was finished, he said:

“Agnes, order the coach. I must take him away from this place.”

I felt that the boy was too feeble to move, but I dared not suggest it.
I too wanted him removed from the baneful influences of the house. We
proposed to carry him down on the pallet, and thus convey him to the
carriage. One hour or more elapsed before everything was in readiness.
While we were moving him Richard appeared, unannounced. A wild,
unearthly scream from Herbert first gave notice of his arrival.

“O uncle! Miss Reef! save me! He will beat me to death!”

His uncle endeavored to calm him with his assurance of protection, and,
turning to Richard, in a voice husky with emotion said:

“Look, this, is your work! If there is a God ruling the universe, your
punishment, though tardy, must be sure.”

“I see nothing strange about it,” said Richard, with an assumption of
indifference which made his handsome face look to me at that moment
like that of a Judas. “If he is my child, as you say, why should he not
be here? Who has a better right to him than I? The little imp professes
to dislike me, but that is some of your teaching, and I will soon cure
him of it.”

“You cannot have him, Richard. He must go with me.”

“I know my rights, and I will use them,” he replied, excitedly.
“Move that boy at your peril;” and he clapped his hand upon his
silver-mounted pocket-pistol. He had evidently been drinking. His day
at the race-course had maddened him. He was in a dangerous mood to
oppose. This Mr. Bristed evidently saw, as I did, for he beckoned me
to go out for assistance. As I was moving toward the door for that
purpose, Richard’s eye lit upon me.

“Ah, ha!” shouted he, coming toward me. “So you are the one who
has been prying into my affairs. It is you I must thank for this
interference. Out of this room directly! Get you gone!”

I should have obeyed, but a sound from Herbert’s bed arrested me--a
sound that awed me more than the angry voice of Richard! I hurried to
the bedside. Mr. Bristed was there before me. I looked at the sinking
boy. A stronger hand than his father’s grasped him now. _That_ hand was
_Death’s_!

No need now to remove the little sufferer from his couch to the
carriage in waiting. He would be borne soon by the white-robed angels
from the reach of us all!

Even Richard, whose cruel grasp he had eluded, seemed awed as the
little spirit burst from its tenement, and a transcendent smile settled
on the thin, waxen face, and the white hands folded themselves across
the breast with an air of unutterable peace.



CHAPTER XX.


Early the next morning Mr. Bristed accompanied the lifeless body of
little Herbert to Bristed Hall. He begged me to go with him, but I
refused his solicitations. I had other duties before me, which I must
perform. I should have been glad to have rid myself from every one, but
that could not be. Richard did not return, and I was alone; the days
dragged heavily away. I felt that I stood on the brink of a yawning
chasm from which I could turn neither to the right nor the left. The
thought of remaining with Richard was abhorrent, and the prospect of
leaving him and commencing life anew was also a dreadful alternative.

What shall I do?--I reflected, as I went my weary way through the
classes. Richard solved that question for me when he returned after an
absence of three days.

My pupils had just retired when a message came that he had returned and
desired to see me in the library. With a heavy heart I went to meet
him. He was not alone. A tall, passionate-looking woman, with dark hair
and restless eyes, sat beside him. She was richly appareled, and gazed
at me with a haughty stare as I entered.

Richard nodded to me a bare recognition and said, “I have sent for
you, as I wish you to inform your pupils that they must leave in the
morning. I have other uses for this building.”

At this cool announcement I staggered. Good God! would he undo me? What
plan had he now in view? “Remove my pupils!” I exclaimed.

“Yes; do I not speak clearly? And as you have been plotting and
scheming for some time against me, I would advise you to leave, also.
Bristed Hall,” said he sneeringly, “is likely to prove an agreeable
shelter to you.”

“_I_ leave!” said I, now fairly awake to the danger. “What do you mean,
sir?”

“I mean,” he replied with diabolical blandness, “that this lady is my
wife, and will from this time take charge of this establishment.”

“Richard Bristed, you cannot, dare not make that assertion! I am your
wife, though I acknowledge it with shame and sorrow. He has misled you,
madam,” said I, turning to the lady. “You are mistaken if you suppose I
shall abandon my rights.”

“Ha, ha!” he laughed, “_she_ knows all about you. You cannot enlighten
her, so you had better hasten and pack your trunks.”

“I shall not leave, sir; I shall defend my position here. I am a woman,
and you shall not sully my fair name,” said I, maddened by his manner.
“Your brother will help me--the law will aid me. Here I remain!”

“You will?” said he; “we will see. This house is mine,” and he drew out
his pistol with which to frighten me.

“Richard,” said I, hoping to restore him to calmness, “put up that
pistol. You cannot, dare not use it.”

“Dare not!” he exclaimed, coming up to me, his hot breath smelling of
wine; “I will show you if I dare not!”

I was alarmed as he suddenly cocked the weapon. What might he not do in
his drunken excitement?

“She is a coward, Dick,” said the lady. “Don’t trouble yourself about
her,” and then turning to me and stamping her foot, “How dare you say
you are his wife!” she exclaimed. “Go out from here!”

I shook from head to foot, but did not leave.

“Come, Dick, give me the pistol,” said the lady; “You don’t know what
you might do with it.”

“Don’t meddle with me,” said he, as she attempted to wrest it from his
grasp. “Why does that girl stand glowering at me?”

“O Richard,” I sobbed, “my heart is ready to burst! Don’t act so;
remember Herbert!”

“Remember Herbert!” he muttered; “I do remember him. You killed him
with your pranks, and now you would accuse me. Go, leave my house, or I
will compel you.”

I believe he would have fired upon me at that moment, but the lady
sprang forward and caught his arm. A slight struggle ensued, then
followed a sharp report, and the pistol fell to the ground; a fearful
shriek rent the air, and Richard fell heavily to the floor, covered
with blood. I rushed to help him. He raised his glassy eyes to mine,
and faintly murmuring “My God! I am lost!” expired.



CHAPTER XXI.


The shock was too much for me. I was seized with fearful dizziness.
The objects in the room became black before my eyes, and I fell to the
floor beside the bleeding corpse, insensible.

Convulsions, I was afterwards told, followed this swoon. A raging fever
attacked me, and for weeks my life was despaired of. At length the
crisis passed; my youthful constitution conquered the disease, and I
was again restored to the world in which I had experienced so much joy
and so much misery.

One morning the delicious feeling of returning consciousness revived
me. Where was I? The room looked familiar, yet strange. Surely I had
seen that silken coverlet before! The carved footboard of the bed on
which I was lying was not new to my sight. My weak brain was busy with
conjectures, when a woman approached, carrying a glass and spoon. It
was Mary, the housekeeper of Bristed Hall.

“Why, Mary, are you here?” I asked in surprise.

“Yes, Miss, but you must not talk. Take these drops. I am heartily glad
you are better, Miss.”

A sense of rest and peace stole over me, followed by a few hours of
natural sleep.

On opening my eyes from this refreshing slumber, I found Mary still
sitting near me.

“Mary,” said I, “you must tell me where I am; everything here looks so
natural, and yet as if I were in a dream.”

“You are not dreaming, Miss. You are in your own chamber in Bristed
Hall.”

Bristed Hall! A warm gush of gratitude pervaded my being. So I was not
friendless! I was cared for.

“Where is Mr. Bristed?” I asked after a pause.

“We have persuaded him to drive out, miss, as the doctor said you were
out of danger. Anxiety for you and grief for Herbert’s death have quite
taken his strength away.”

“I must get up, Mary. You must help me to dress.”

“Oh no, miss!” she replied; “you are not strong enough yet.”

“I am quite strong. Besides, it will revive me; I am weary of the bed,
and need a change.”

She acquiesced in my wish, dressed me neatly, and smoothed my hair.

“Now, take me down,” I requested. “I wish to surprise Mr. Bristed.”

Of course she remonstrated, said I would bring on the fever again, and
all that; but as I persisted in my determination, she led me down the
stairs. The fresh air invigorated me; I felt every minute increased
power. At my request, she took me to Mr. Bristed’s conservatory. The
bright flowers, the singing birds in their ornamented cages, and the
adjoining study with its well-filled shelves, all reminded me of the
past. Tears came to my eyes as I recalled the bitter changes I had seen
since leaving that sunny home!



CHAPTER XXII.


I had not been long in the conservatory when I heard the wheels of a
carriage. Mr. Bristed had returned. He ascended the steps: I heard his
voice in the hall. His first words were an inquiry after my welfare.
He was told that I was better. Passing through his apartments, he
entered the study. I could see him plainly from the windows of the
conservatory. He looked, I thought, thin and sad; his hair had become
sprinkled with gray since the time when I resided in his mansion.
Turning to Mary, who was waiting there for me, he said: “I feel faint;
bring me a cup of tea.”

Mary left the room on her mission, and I stole from my hiding place.

“Mr. Bristed,” whispered I, coming softly up behind his chair.

He started. “Whose voice is that? Agnes, where are you?”

“Here, sir,” I answered, as I touched him lightly.

He turned toward me, his face flushed with pleasure, his eyes expectant.

“You, Agnes--you, verily? How came you here? I thought you were ill off
your pillow. What pleasant trick is this you have been playing me?”
Then taking both my hands in his and surveying me, his eyes the while
beaming with soft pleasure, he said:

“Oh, I am so happy that you are better. But you are wrong to come here;
you will make yourself ill again.”

I told him how I had awakened, and of my glad surprise in finding
myself in my old chamber again, and how I had insisted on coming down
to thank him for his kindness in bringing me hither.

“Don’t thank me, Agnes; for you I could do anything. This place shall
always be your home. Some day, Agnes, you may learn to appreciate the
worth of a heart that truly loves you.”

I fell upon my knees before him. “O Mr. Bristed, I do appreciate!” I
cried. “I do know that you love me. Let me live for you. Let me by a
life of devotion atone for the mistakes of the past!”

He lifted me up, and folded me to his breast.



CHAPTER XXIII.


A few weeks of balmy spring air and soft sunshine completely restored
me to health.

One day when strolling in company with Mr. Bristed through a path
blooming with early hyacinths and crocuses, I ventured to ask him about
my school.

“It is entirely broken up, Agnes. After the fearful tragedy that
transpired within its walls, your pupils scattered like dust in
the wind. I arrived the next morning after the death of Richard,
unconscious of what had occurred in my absence, but intending to take
you home with me. I found you, as I then thought, on your death-bed. I
settled with your separate teachers, and closed the school. With the
French woman who claimed to be Richard’s wife, and with whom he had
probably gone through the form of marriage, as with you, I made an
arrangement satisfactory to her to sell the property and give her an
equivalent for its value.”

“But what motive,” I asked hesitatingly, “could Richard have had for
his course?”

“Motive? The same that had actuated him through life. With you, Agnes,
he would have lived probably as he did with others, until his versatile
heart demanded a change. Then, with your little estate in his hands and
Herbert’s property in his power, he would have deserted you for some
new beauty.

“But let the grave cover his mistakes and evils. I believe that a
good God will not punish him too severely for propensities which he
inherited.”

Once more I yielded to the charms of companionship and love. Severe
trials had proved Mr. Bristed’s worth, and when he again asked me to
make the remnant of his life happy by my care and love--to become his
wife, and share his home, and reign queen of his heart--I consented.
When the June roses blossomed, we were married. The balmy air and
opening buds spoke of a new life. They typified my new life, truly. The
glitter and gloss which had deceived me in youth would never beguile me
more. I had learned that it was not the external man, but the internal
that was worthy of love.

The shadowy form of Alice never troubled me again, I believe reparation
can be made beyond the tomb, and that in some far-off world the
new-born spirit of Richard atones to Alice and Herbert for the wrong he
did them in this.



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

_TO HER HUSBAND_.


      Dead! dead! You call her dead!
You cannot see her in her glad surprise,
Kissing the tear-drops from your weeping eyes;
Moving about you through the ambient air,
Smoothing the whitening ripples of your hair.

      Dead! dead! You call her dead!
You cannot see the flowers she daily twines
In garlands for you, from immortal vines;
The danger she averts you never know;
For her sweet care you only tears bestow.

      Dead! dead! You call her dead!
Vainly you’ll wait until the last trump sound!
Vainly your love entombed beneath the ground!
Vainly in kirk-yard raise your mournful wail!
Your loved is living in some sunnier vale.

      Dead! dead! You call her dead!
You think her gone to her eternal rest,
Like some strange bird forever left her nest!
Her sweet voice hush’d within the silent grave,
While o’er her dust the weeping willows wave.

      Dead! dead! You call her dead!
And yet she lives, and loves! Oh, wondrous truth!
In golden skies she breathes immortal youth!
Look upward! where the roseate sunset beams,
Her airy form amid the brightness gleams!

      Dead! dead! You call her dead!
Oh, speak not thus! her tender heart you grieve,
And ’twixt her love and yours a barrier weave!
Call her by sweetest name, your voice she’ll hear,
And through the darkness like a star appear.

      Dead! dead! You call her dead!
Lift up your eyes! she is no longer dead!
In your lone path the unseen angels tread!
And when your weary night of earth shall close,
She’ll lead you where eternal summer blows.



ARTEMUS WARD.

_AND OUT OF PURGATORY._

ARTEMUS WARD’S LECTURES TO POOR, PERISHING HUMANITY.

LECTER I.


You’ll remember, relatives and nabors, how I crost the Atlantic Ocean
and never agin set foot on my native soil. I naterally thought my
opportunities there, in the British Mooseum and with those Egyptian
Carcusses dun up in rags, and remaining for the space of six days
and six nights with a skeleton grinning at me and pointing its long
skinless fingers in my face and looking in an awful licentious manner,
showing its pivoted legs--I say I naterally thought such an unheard-of
experience would have prepared me for “the awful change” that follered.
But it didn’t.

One nite, cummin’ hum from the Mooseum, where I had been instructin’
and elevatin’ several thousand pussons, male and female, I innocently
swallered a fog--swallered it hull. I’d bin swallerin on ’em ever since
I’d bin in England, but that night I took in a bigger one than ever,
and it made me _sick_.

I sent for the physicians that received the patronage of the
noble lords and dooks and they made me _sicker_; and finally for
the physicain “to her most gracious majisty the Queen of Great
Britain,”--but their aristocratic attention to me was of no use. As I
lie tossing on what is known as “the bed of pain,” I seed a big light
coming through the dark towards me. Behind that light appeared a grim
skeleton, just like the pictur of Death in the Alminack, walkin’ on
tiptoe toward me; and quicker than a wink he put out his long bony
hand and touched me--firstly, in the pit of the stomach, so I couldn’t
holler; nextly, he pressed his finger tips on my eye-balls, and they
sunk right back into their sockets.

I tried to shake him off, and to yell, but I couldn’t! Then I knew I
was “dun fur.” Next came what a printer’s devil would call a ---- blank.

I was skeered out of my seven senses, and when I cum to and tried to
recolect myself, I was like the old woman in the song who fell asleep,
and

“By came a pedlar and his name was Stout
  And he cut her petticoats all round about;
He cut her petticoats up to her knees,
  Which made the old woman begin for to freeze.”

I was in the same predicament, for I was now only in my bare bones, and
knew I was a rolecking old skeleton.

Wall, it gin me an awful shock to find myself like a skull and
cross-bones on a tombstone, sittin’ on my own coffin!

Presently I was grappled by a big worm with a hundred legs. He then
sent for his feller worms, and they licked me from skull to toe-jint.
After I had stood the lickin’ as long as I could (they tickled so),
I concluded to run away, so I started on a full gallop, and arter
I had run awhile, where should I fetch up but in the vicinity of
Vic’s Palace. I know’d by pussonal experience suthin’ of the feelin’
manner with which the British public look upon the Royal Family, and
a sensation of relief cum over my mind as I thought if I once entered
their ground no one dared foiler me. So I gin a spring and leaped right
atop of the middle chimny. Owin’ to private considerations, I did’nt
mind the soot, but I clambered down, and there I was, to my amazement,
rite in the private apartments of the Queen. She was sittin’ at a table
lookin’ at a dogerotipe of Prince Albert; and I walked straight up to
her, not feel in’ a bit afeared, and making my manners, axed her if I
didn’t resemble the Prince?--rememberin’ that the preacher had kindly
said over my coffin that “there was no distinction in the grave.”

I thought that as I was a pooty gay image of Death, I might remind her
of the “Prince Consort.”

She looked up kinder sideways as I spoke, but she must have bin a
leetle hard o’ hearing, for she shook her head.

Then I thought I’d try her on another tack. So I placed my hands on
my shakey knees, and bendin’ over in this guise, so she could see me
plainly, while my teeth rattled in my skull as I shook my head at her
and growled:

“Haint you afeared of me, Madam?” With the pirsistent obstinacy of the
feminine gender, she refused to notice me. So I thought she was kinder
“set up on her pins,” and I shouted louder:

“Victoria _Brown_! Aint you afeared of me? Aint you afeared I’ll tell
Prince Albert of your _dooins_?”

At that she gin an awful yell, and flung herself down upon a yaller
satin divan, trimed with gold, and slobbered it all over with tears.

I know’d then I had a “_mission to perform_,” and that my fleshless
bones were not given me for useless pleasure, but as a “warnin’ to my
race.”

Arter this adventer I left the palace as I had entered it, “leavin’ not
a trace behind me.”

Since that affair, I have bin goin’ about “doin’ good,” frightnin’ the
wicked into fits, and follerin’ in the steps of the parsen, and thus
working my way out of Purgatory.



LECTER II.

ARTEMUS WARD.--OUT OF PURGATORY.


Relatives and nabors,--Thinkin’ you’ll, like to know whether I’d bin
roastin’ in brimstone, along with Solomen and Lot’s wife, and that you
might feel consarned to know sumthin’ about my further adventers, I’ll
continoo.

One mornin’ soon after this, havin’ spent a restless nite, I was
thinkin’ what I had best do, when I seed, cumin’ rite out of a big
marble edifice, a nice little woman about as raw-boned as myself. As
she carried an open paper in her hand which was certified to by two
bishops and three clergeymen that she’d bin baptised and her sins
washed away, I felt it would be safe for me to foller her, knowin’ I
had no such dockerment to admit me into the good graces of Abraham or
Peter, or whatever porter might keep the gates of Paradise.

She seemed kinder skeered and tremblin’ like for a minit, not knowin’
what to do; then with a sudden start she spread herself out just like
the eagel of Ameriky, and soared rite up into the sky with nothin’ to
histe her by. I felt in my heart to foller her, and spread out just as
she did, keeping near her on the sly.

As she went on she began to shine like a star, shootin’ on through the
azure heavens for all the world like a sky-rocket.

That put me on my pluck, and I bust out just like a sky-rocket too. My
blazers! If it didn’t make my head spin.

When I collected my idees, I thought I’d look and see if I resembled
a glow-worm behind, and there, by thunder, was a long stream of
light, just like the tail of a comet! I tell you, I felt happy! She’s
regenerated me, thought I; and I, too, am one of the “shining hosts”!
And then directly, without any warnin’ or noise of any kind, all around
began to look about the color of a yaller sun-flower, and I began to
scent a powerful smell of roses and violets.

The female sank down in the golden air, and I kept cluss beside her,
and as she kept droppin’ she suddenly changed, like the old woman in
the fairy-book, into a bouncin’ girl, the very pictur of the goddess of
liberty!

Arter this, she turned and smiled on me. She looked just like alabaster
cream; the most dazzlingest creetur that ever startled the beholder!

I was took quite aback when she held out her little hand for mine;
I felt kinder delicate like that she should see my big jints. But
howsomever, “here goes,” said I, and I stuck out my bony fist, and, by
Jupiter, it was kivered with flesh, jest as soft and delicate as Uncle
Sam’s babies!!!

I stood starin’ from my hands to her about a minit, and then she bust
out a-laughin’, and I bust out a-laughin’ too!

“How shaller you be!” said she.

“It’s duced amoosin’,” said I.

“Who be you?” said she.

“Artemus Ward, the great lecterer on ‘Women’s Rites and Mormons,’” said
I.

At this she seemed mighty tickled.

“I heerd you speak on those momentous subjects in Liverpool,” said she.

“And arter that when I read the affectin’ account of your death in a
strange land, I cried.”

“Cried?” said I, “I’m much obleeged to you, but there’s nothin’ to cry
for as I know.”

“So there be’nt,” said she, puckerin’ up her pretty little mouth; “but
tell me, now, is this reely you?”

“I don’t know,” said I, “whether its reely myself or not, for I haven’t
seed myself--how do I look?”

She naterally blushed and answered:

“Ansom.”

That was too much for me. I took her round her waist and whispered--I
wont tell you what. She shook her head so that the ringlets fell
downall over her neck like the ashes from a tobaccy pipe, and in a
mighty reprovin’ manner said:

“Artemus Ward, I am a poetess!”

(By Jupiter! that was a stunner.)

“Is it Mrs. _Browning_?” said I, ready to drop on my knees (thinkin’ of
Robert).

She shook her head agin, and moved off, and I follered, kinder ashamed
of bein’ so abrupt. Lookin’ loftily at me, she said:

“I must leave you.”

“Leave me!” said I, “You cruel monster of beauty! Leave when I am
_sealed_ to you?”

(That kinder frightened her--I learned suthin’ from bein’ among the
Mormons.)

“You may foller me,” said she, while descendin’ in the midst of a
garden which opened rite before us. I did as she advised, and stepped
rite down in a place where there was a mighty display of trees,
flowers, and fountains, and a pretty big sprinklin’ of people.

Good Heavens! thought I. Is this the New Jerusalem? and lookin’ around
timidly for the man with the key, fearin’ I might be turned out, but
seein’ nothin’ but common lookin’ men and women, and no “flamin’
cherubim,” and creaters with wings stuck on their heads, and no bodies,
such as I had naterally expected to find in such a place, I took
courage and stept forward boldly.

The people all commenced cryin’ out as loud as they could:

“Artemus Ward! Artemus Ward!”

I felt kinder abashed at this, but advanced and called out, “Hear!
hear! Friends, it’s an amazin’ mystery how you know’d my name.” (I
felt diffident at not havin’ my lecter in my pocket, and not bein’
accustomed to speakin’ verbatim.) Howsumever, as they continooed
to clap their hands and shout, I got together all the brass I used
to carry “down East,” and jumped right atop of one of the roarin’
fountains--the very biggest on ’em all. I surmised it was kinder
dangerous, havin’ always experienced a religious awe of the “water of
life,” and not knowin’ but what this might be it. “Here goes,” said
I; “faint heart never won fair lady,” for rite at the foot was that
bootiful poetess to whom allusion has been made, lookin’ straight at me
with all her eyes.

I wanted to make a grand impression and let ’em know that I cum from
a nation that could fight for the Constitution, and wasn’t afeard
of spirits. And as for the “gold and pearls,” the “jasper and the
sardonix,” they needn’t expect to snub me off with this, for I had been
all through the gold and silver regions of Ameriky, and could tell as
big a story as any on ’em.

“The fact is, friends and nabors,” said I, “it is one thing to read of
a place, and another to see it. Now I must say, that geography and book
of travels called the ‘Bible’ is suthin’ like ‘Gulliver’s Travels,’
rather loose in description; and, for all I see around me, the grand
nation of Ameriky can beat you all holler in wonders.”

Havin’ thus spoken a good word for my country, I dismissed them, and
hurried back to commence these lecters, which is only a beginnin’ of
what I intend to do for the Amerikan People.



LADY BLESSINGTON.

_DISTINGUISHED WOMEN_.


It is remarkable to what a degree woman develops her intellect in the
spirit world.

Freed from the cares of maternity, she seems like some young goddess
fresh from the hand of Jupiter. All nerve, electricity, and motion--her
thoughts sparkling and full of flavor, and light, and life, this
new-born Eve of the celestial kingdom inspires the down-trodden Eve
of earth, and kindles to a blaze the whole male population of the
spiritual globe.

Prominent among the women of the times who have emigrated to these
shores from populous America, stands Margaret Fuller--a tall and
impressive blonde--a woman of strong bias, and resolute as a lion when
she has set foot upon a project. Earnest, passionate, and brilliant
in conversation, she wields a powerful influence over many minds of
a peculiar order; and through the few mediums whom she selects to
represent her characteristics, she displays a calmness and coolness of
reasoning and an excellence of judgment such as few are able to exhibit
thus second handed.

She has, through the exercise of her genius, erected a beautiful villa
upon a southern island, wherein she has displayed her poetic taste to
advantage. There, in the midst of a luxuriant garden, she resides with
her beautiful Angelo, a child of graceful form who was washed ashore
from the sad wreck years ago, but now approaching the years of manhood,
and in his looks the very personification of a young Mercury, blending
the fire and passion of a Southern nature with the zeal and activity of
the Northern.

Count Ossoli and his noble wife tear themselves away from the pleasures
of this delightful state of existence and devote their sacred energies
to the enfranchisement of Italy.

No Roman patriot, neither Garibaldi nor any of his compeers, equals
them in their efforts for the freedom of that sunny land.

Madame Ossoli is sanguine of success.

Defeat she considers merely the plough and harrow for the ripe harvest
of victory which will follow.

From her own eloquent lips I have heard her address to the Italian
soldiers who, defeated and killed, marched to the spirit land.

She told them how she, in the midst of her new-born joy, in sight of
her own native land, fought the fierce battle of the briny waves, and
felt as she sat dying on the sinking wreck, that all she had striven
for was in vain; how she had found that defeat, that engulping billow,
had proved in the end a victory, and had placed her where she could
watch over the destiny of Italia, her adopted country, and work for its
regeneration, and fight for its liberty, as she could not have done had
she been more successful in her plans on earth.

Another American woman, of less note, but also a reformer, is Eliza
Farnham. She is not so emotional, has less sentiment and considerable
originality, and is honest in her opinions and determined in her
efforts to uplift her sex and ameliorate their condition.

She wields a powerful influence over a certain clique in the spirit
world and on earth, and therefore deserves to be noticed among the
women of the times. In person she is of dark complexion, with black
hair and eyes, and strongly-marked brows, possessing much vivacity and
caustic wit.

She is matron of a large Institution, or Circulorium, erected for the
use of those spirits who make a practice of communicating with the
inhabitants of earth. They there meet to converse upon the various
means which they employ for transmitting intelligence, and to relate
their successes and defeats with the various trance and clairvoyant
mediums through whom they operate. There congregate those lecturers
and orators who discourse through the organisms of numerous trance
and inspirational mediums on earth. There also convene physicians and
“medicine men” who control the large number of healing mediums who
exercise their power throughout the United States and Europe. There,
also, gather the prophets and seers, who, with vision clearer than that
of ordinary spirits, warn mankind of danger and impress individuals
to pursue certain courses of action, to go or come, to undertake and
prosecute great designs for the seeming weal or woe of humanity.

From this lofty aviary she still sends forth her delicious, strains.
The children of earth hear them in fainter notes through young poets
who catch her inspiration. What she is doing for women in the world she
inhabits will be felt ere long in both the continents of Europe and
America.

Another remarkable person in this coterie of illustrious women must
be mentioned--Charlotte Bronté--a lady who feels the true dignity
and intellect of her sex with a force akin to manliness. Modest and
retiring, she would yet pick up the gauntlet like any knight against
the man who should say of a work of literary merit, “that it could
never have been penned by a woman.”

Soft and delicate, yet strong and full of heroism, she represents
woman, quicker to perceive the right than man, and capable of
undergoing greater perils in executing her duty.

Charlotte Bronté is a slight, brown-haired girl, with an eye full of
clairvoyant power. With her father, sisters, and poor reprobate of a
brother, all united like a cluster-diamond, she lives in a home which
they have selected, remarkable for its wild and picturesque beauty.

As a family they are like the ancient Scots, clannish--not in a vulgar
acceptation of the term, but for the reason that they are kindred
souls. The torch of genius flames in every member of that family,
but Charlotte is the mover, the inspirer of them all. She possesses
a greater degree of concentration and energy, and is more chivalrous
and venturesome. She is exceedingly interested in woman, and devotes
daily a portion of her time to visiting earth and suggesting ideas and
thoughts to those whom she can influence.

In her new home she draws around her a circle of chosen spirits, among
whom may be mentioned Thackeray (who esteems her as about the finest
specimen of womanhood he has seen), Prince Albert, Scott, Hawthorne,
the German Goethe, De Quincy, and others.

Few writers of romance have done more than she towards raising her sex
above the frivolities of dress and fortune, and placing them where they
shine conspicuous for their intellect and noble affections.

Bold and unsparing in analyzing woman’s heart in its uncontaminated
simplicity as well as in its subtlety, she lighted a torch in behalf
of her sex which flamed throughout the literary world, startling and
dazzling the beholder--a light which will never be quenched.

Charlotte Bronté was on earth what is now known as a medium. Her belief
in the supernatural she evinced in her works. If she had not indicated
so much intellect, the critics would have termed her superstitious.
They have inferred that it was the loneliness and sadness of her
life which caused her to imagine she saw her beloved dead and heard
unearthly voices calling her. But she has since told me that those
mysterious influences were not morbid fancies, but realities. Being
thus endowed clairvoyantly, and not only receptive but able to impart
that which she receives, she exerts at the present moment an influence
in the world of letters little dreamed of on earth.

I may here, without infringing on the requirements of good taste,
allude to the tale she has dictated through this medium. That it is a
story of powerful interest, all who read it will confess.

To many minds it will prove that her power is unabated, but every
reader will perceive the characteristics of the Bronté family in
the tale--characteristics which cannot be imitated--which are
individualized in that family, and breathe of the lone moor on which
they spent their earth ife, one of sad struggle of genius against
circumstance and destiny.



PROFESSOR OLMSTEAD.

_THE LOCALITY OF THE SPIRIT WORLD, AND ITS MAGNETIC RELATIONS TO THIS_.


How near is the spirit world to earth? is a question often put by the
inquiring mind. Some suppose it lies contiguous, just in the suburbs;
others imagine the spirit world to be within the atmosphere of this
earth; others again set it afar off in a given locality.

The last theory is correct, and the spirit world is really several
billions of miles from earth; yet the suppositions are true (in a
certain sense), for the inhabitants of the spirit world are migratory,
and there are many millions of them living within the earth’s
atmosphere, drawn thither on errands of pleasure and duty.

But there is a spiritual earth revolving around its spiritual sun, just
as this earth revolves around its sun.

It has shape and form like this planet, and is indeed the spiritual
body of the earth.

It existed before the creation of man on this globe, and was ready
for the reception of the soul or spirit of the first human being who
perished on earth.

As a spirit’s body is constructed from the spiritual emanations of man,
so the spiritual globe is formed of the magnetic emanations of the
earth. The refined gases which were thrown off during the process of
the formation of the material globe which man now inhabits, form the
basis of the spirit earth.

Each planet in the vast universe has its correspondent spirit world,
and invisible magnetic rays are constantly exchanging between the
spirit planet and its earth.

These magnetic currents or rays, like waves of silver light, constantly
transmit thoughts from the spirit world to this.

All spirit is matter.

The spirit globe, being primarily composed of gases, in revolving
around its central sun ultimates in a substance which is similar to the
soil of your earth.

The same system which marks the development of the material world also
is displayed in the development of the spiritual world.

Order is God. No spirit world can exist without form, neither can it
exist without motion. Motion produces the spheroid, and the rotation of
the spheroid produces atmosphere and diversity of surface; all these
variations characterize the spirit globe.

When these facts are carefully reflected upon and understood, the
majesty of the Creator assumes a magnitude most stupendous.

The astronomer searching through space for undiscovered planets and
suns, has failed to fix his telescope upon these spiritual worlds, but
the day will come when science will discover their existence.

The spirit world is not an arid desert. As I have said, it has soil.
It is not a thin, vaporish flat, without depth or density; and its
circumference exceeds that of the earth.

One of the component elements of its soil is magnetism. Its vegetation
is of rapid growth and beautiful beyond anything that your planet can
display.

As the atmosphere of the spirit world is not so dense as yours, and
as the rays of the spiritual sun are not obliged to penetrate through
so much cloud and vapor, the colors of all objects are sparkling and
beautiful in variety and tone.

The specific gravity of the spirit upon his globe is not so great,
comparatively, as that of man in the natural world. He can rise in his
native air with little difficulty, and can dart with unerring accuracy
upon the magnetic current flowing from the spirit world to the one he
once inhabited.

The investigator in searching for the spirit world has but to direct
his attention to the north star and his eye will embrace, unwittingly,
the locality of that world. The north pole is the great gate which
leads to it direct.

The aurora borealis or Northern lights is an electric current which
flows from that world to earth, and is sent in through the great gate.
The scintillations of these rays are caught up by the clouds and vapors
and are repeated in many portions of the globe, and faint rays from
them are seen even in this temperate climate.



ADAH ISAACS MENKEN.

_HOLD ME NOT_.


Up to the zenith mount!
 Far into space--
Ah! all thy tears I count,
 Sad, loving face.

Clasp not my garments so,
 Love of my soul;
Clinging, you drag me low,
 Where tortures roll.

Soil not my angel wing;
 Keep not from rest;
How can I upward spring,
 Clasped to thy breast?

Hold me not, lover--friend--
 Earth I would fly;
Passion and torture end
 In the blest sky!

Life brought but woe to me,
 Even thy kiss
Gave me but agony--
 Remorse with bliss!

Let go thy earthly hold--
  Fain would I fly;
Voices with love untold
  Call from on high.

Farewell--the dregs are drank
  Of life’s sad cup;
It proved but poison rank;
  Life’s lease is up!



N.P. WILLIS.

_OFF-HAND SKETCHES_.


Since my friend Morris joined me, we’ve been as busy as Wall street
brokers in a gold panic--eyes and ears, and every sense filled with
the novel sights and sounds that greet us on every side in this most
delightful, charming, incomparably beautiful summer land.

Whom have we not seen, from Napoleon down to the last suicide?

I have a memorandum which would reach from here to Idlewild, filled
with the names of notables and celebrities, whom I have met in the
short space of a year.

We do matters quickly here, among the celestials. I used to think life
sped fast in the great cities of London, Paris, and New York, but we
live faster here. With every means of travelling which human ingenuity
can invent--flying machines, balloons, the will and the magnet--we
fairly outdo thought and light, which you consider emblems of rapidity
on earth.

Morris and I made a point of visiting Byron, Moore, Hunt, Scott, and
that clique. You must bear in mind that we do not all live on one point
of space _here_; among so many thousand million, billion, trillion,
quadrillion, sextillion, and countless illions, there must be some
persons who are further apart than Morris and I, who are side by side!

It is a peculiarity which you Yankees seldom think of, that Englishmen
can’t endure to live in America. Well, that peculiarity is just as
active after they “shuffle off the mortal coil.” They must have their
little England, even in the spirit world.

So I telegraphed to that quarter of the celestial planet that two
strangers from the great emporium of intellect, and civilization,
New York City, were about to visit that locality. We so arranged our
journey as to arrive about a day after the dispatch had reached them.

It was proposed that we should meet at the beautiful villa belonging to
the Countess of Blessington.

I can assure you that on arriving there it was with a slightly
palpitating heart I ascended the noble steps of her residence. The
Countess met us graciously, and by her vivacity and charming candor
dispelled the feeling of modest diffidence as to our merits, naturally
awakened by the thought of being presented to those illustrious persons
who so long held sway over English literature.

Ere we were aware, we were ushered into the midst of a hilarious group
of authors, who welcomed us in a most cordial manner.

I did not need to have them introduced to me by name, as I recognized
each readily from likenesses I had seen on earth.

Lord Byron’s countenance is much handsomer and more spiritualized
in expression than any portrait of him extant. I noticed that the
deformity of his foot, which had been a severe affliction to him on
earth, was no longer apparent.

Scott looked as good and as jovial as ever, and Tom Moore, the very
pink of perfection and elegance.

As for the Countess, when I last saw her on earth I thought her
incomparable. But whether it was through the cosmetic influences of
the spirit air, or from other causes, she had now become bewitchingly
beautiful.

After we had conversed awhile on general topics and I had answered
their questions in regard to the changes which had occurred in certain
terrestrial localities with which, they were familiar, the Countess
invited us out to survey the landscape from her balcony.

The view from this point was extremely romantic. Just beyond the
spacious park extended a lovely lake, whose waters were of a rich
golden-green color. Upon its limpid bosom several gondolas floated, and
gay parties waved their handkerchiefs to us from beneath the silken
hangings as they passed.

“Countess,” said I, after my eye had surveyed the fine landscape and
noble residence, “I am but a wandering Bohemian, and you must excuse
my audacity if I ask how it, is possible that in this “world of
shadows” you have surrounded yourself by so much that is beautiful and
substantial? You could not bring your title and your lands with you
from earth. Your jewels and costly raiment you must have left behind;
then whence comes all this wealth and luxury?”

The Countess smiled. “Ah,” said she, roguishly, “you did not study your
Bible lesson well if you did not learn that you could ’lay up treasures
in heaven.’ Why, all the time I was living on earth I had friends
working for me--admirers who had been drawing interest from my youthful
talent and had laid it up to my account. We go upon the tithe system
here, and ’render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”

She told me that works of interest which are published on earth are
reproduced in the spirit world and the author credited with a tithe of
what accrues from them.

Byron, Scott, and Moore have also been doing double duty while on
earth, and have been recompensed for their industry in the spirit world.

Byron, she privately informed me, had been united to the Mary of his
early love, and under her sweet womanly influence had lost much of the
misanthropy which had annoyed his friends in this life.

As my stay was short, I had only opportunity to converse with these men
of mark on general topics.

On the whole, we spent a very interesting morning, and, after partaking
of refreshments, we left, having inquired after Count D’Orsay, whom we
learned was then on a trip to earth. Bidding adieu to the Countess and
her friends, we started for the celebrated island called the “Golden
Nest,” which lies in a south-westerly direction from the Countess’s
villa.

After having travelled some hours in our own diligence (i.e., driven
through the air by our own will), moving along quite leisurely that we
might survey the country beneath us, we reached a group of beautiful
lakes, reminding me strongly in size and appearance of lakes Erie,
Huron, Michigan, and Superior, the famed lakes of my own native clime.

In the centre of the largest of these lakes lay the island we were
seeking. We descended like skilful aeronauts into the centre of a
group of happy children, who were playing like little fairies amid the
flowers blooming profusely everywhere.

Singling out two of the prettiest, we addressed them.

Directly a merry band gathered about us, answering our questions
intelligently and skipping before us to lead the way to the “Golden
Nest,” as the superb structure was called in which these little
soul-birds were sheltered.

Everywhere, as we advanced, our eyes lit upon pretty bands of children;
some swinging in the tree-boughs like birds, some waltzing in the air,
others sitting upon the green, chattering and singing, filling the
surrounding air with their melody.

Certainly it was a most enlivening sight to witness their enjoyment.
After having amused ourselves for a while with their gambols, we turned
our steps toward the Home.

The building was oval in form, and composed of a golden fleecy
incrustation from which it derived it, name. Within, the “Nest” was
like Aladdin’s palace.

Innumerable compartments, hung with silks and tissues of tender and.
harmonious colors, and decorated with birds’ plumage of varied hues,
arrested the eye. These spacious alcoves were each furnished with a
domed skylight, adorned with hanging tassels and glittering ornaments.
Ladies were busy in nearly all of these compartments in instructing
children under their care.

In some that I entered I was shown new-born babes not an hour old, torn
from their mothers’ bosoms on earth, and lying upon fleecy pillows,
attended by lovely women, who looked the angels which they were.

One of these gay baby-nests in which I lingered was decorated with
peculiar tastefulness, and seemed like a perfect aviary. Singular birds
of splendid plumage were perched on various projections about the
spacious apartment, warbling away like silver bells.

The lady of this chamber was engaged in teaching a little girl of some
two summers to mount to the skylight by her will.

This lady, I was informed, was the noble lady R----, so famed for her
charity on earth.

She was very gracious and communicative, and told me that some children
exercised their ability to rise in air more readily than others; that
the difficulties their instructor had to guard against were the fickle,
versatile nature of their wills, and their inability for continuous
thought. Their wayward minds could not be directed long at one point.
They would wander from the path like the poor little Babes in the Wood,
and on their way to special destinations, would change their thoughts,
unharness their will, and come suddenly down, sometimes in lonely and
unfrequented spots.

Owing to this dereliction, it was found difficult to make frequent
excursions to earth with them. Those attracted to their terrestrial
homes were attended by ladies who had them in charge, and who would
kindly accompany them, for one or two weeks, to visit their friends
upon earth.

I told her that I had lost a child some years ago, and had thought till
recently to find it still an infant.

Many cases of this kind, she said, had occurred under her observation.
People did not view the matter rationally. Ladies had called at the
“Golden Nest” to inquire for children that had left earth twenty or
thirty years ago, and it was painful to witness the distress they
exhibited when told that their children were grown men and women.

One lady had called there some three days since, and claimed as her own
a little child, an infant about two months old, who had been brought
from earth three weeks previous, while the child she had lost had been
in the spirit world seventeen years!

But no amount of argument would convince her that her child had grown
up, and that the infant she selected was not her own.

She was finally permitted to take the child away, as they knew it would
be properly cared for. Many of the children while young were thus
adopted.

“It appears marvellous,” remarked this noble lady, “that any parent
should wish to cramp the body and soul of his child by keeping it
in a state of infancy, when, if it had remained on earth, it would
necessarily have arrived at years of maturity.

“Nature does not suspend her operations in transplanting from earth to
heaven! The soul is formed for expansion, and surely the spirit world
is not the place to suppress unfoldment!”

As I listened to her intelligent conversation, I blushed to be reminded
of my own error in supposing my own darling, who had reached the
spirit world so long before, would greet me with the prattling talk of
babyhood!

Pleased with our visit and the information we had received, we bade
adieu to Lady R. and the “Golden Nest,” and pursued our flight in
another direction.

“Do let us next find out,” said I to Morris, “what they do here with
criminals; there must be many a wicked reprobate who arrives here from
earth fresh from murders and villanies of all sorts.”

As I spoke, two grave-looking gentlemen, whom I took to be either
doctors or judges, crossed the path before us, and I proposed to make
these inquiries of them.

Who should they prove to be but William Penn and the omnipresent
Benjamin Franklin!

“Yes, yes,” said Penn, in reply to our questions shaking his head
deprecatingly; “’tis too true; we are obliged to have what Swedenborg
calls “our hells,” for you send your criminals from earth so hardened
that we are compelled to keep them under guard. Come with us and we’ll
show you how we treat them.”

We were very glad of this opportune meeting, and followed with alacrity.

Presently, leaving the beautiful country far behind us, we came upon
a desert waste, and as I am extremely sensitive to conditions, I felt
somewhat like a criminal in passing through it. Having got safely over,
however, there burst upon our sight a scene of surpassing beauty; as
far as the eye could reach extended a most highly-cultivated district
of country.

Groves of fruit resembling the oranges and pineapples of our tropics,
noble trees like the palm, the fig, and date, were to be seen in every
quarter, rearing their boughs against the summer sky. The air was laden
with fragrance from tree and vine.

Great bunches of purple grapes like the fabled fruit of Canaan in the
Old Testament, a single bunch of which required two men to bear it,
drooped heavily from twining vines, while from many a bough and twig
swung golden, crimson, and cream-colored fruit, which fairly made one’s
mouth water.

It was a picture rich enough in color for a Claude or Turner.

“This is delicious,” said I to Penn. “Do tell us to what fairy prince
this magnificent land belongs!”

“We will show you the fairy prince himself, very soon,” said he. “Do
you see the tip of his castle yonder?”

I looked, and as we moved swiftly in the direction indicated an
unexpected spectacle loomed in sight. It was a building so delicate and
perfect in its structure that it appeared like a vision.

Pillars and arches, dome and architrave, were wrought in a style
exquisitely beautiful; the material of which it was composed seemed
like polished sea-shells, so transparent that you could see through it
the forms of the inmates.

“This,” said William Penn, “is one of our prisons. Let us enter.”

We followed in amazement, and were ushered into a hall hung with
paintings rich in design and color, while distributed around in
various alcoves were cases containing books and articles of curious
workmanship, of which I had not yet learned the use.

This hall formed the court within the main building.

From where we stood we could see hundreds of men in white suits moving
about. Some seemed engaged in conversation, others in sportive games,
and others in various employments.

“You do not mean to tell us that these men are prisoners,” said I.

“Yes; they have passed for years on earth a life of evil, yet all the
beauty you behold here is the work of their hands. Idleness is the
mother of crime. We teach them to become industrious, and surround them
with beauty to develop their love of harmony.

“Ignorance and poverty are supposed to be the principal causes of evil
on earth. But many fearful offences have been committed in high places
from thwarted love and ambition. We have many of that character in this
prison, but they are young. This is intended as a place to educate and
restrain men who would return to earth and incite impressible beings to
evil.

“The material of which this building is composed, though seemingly so
fragile, is a non-conductor of thought, and while detained within it
the inmates gradually free themselves from their old influences and
disorderly desires.

“Cultivating the fruits of the earth calls into action only their most
harmonious organs. A great mistake made by the legislators of earth is
in employing criminals in stone-cutting, or placing them in gangs, as
they do on the Continent, to work the rugged road.

“Employment of this kind awakens the very propensities which should be
subdued. The composing, softening influences induced by tilling the
soil would go far toward converting your evil men into good citizens.”

I was struck with the truthfulness of his suggestions, and put them
down in my note-book for the benefit of humanity, and now hand them
over to my readers for consideration.

After leaving this place we paid a visit to Edgar A. Poe,
whose unfortunate life on earth you are all familiar with. His
brilliant imagination we found as active as of old. He welcomed us
enthusiastically, and eagerly led us into a small theatre which he had
constructed and filled with most marvellous creations from his own
fancy. He inherited from his father and mother, who were actors, a love
for dramatic effect, and in theatrical impersonations he found some
vent for his exuberant imagination.

“Stand here,” said he, placing us near the entrance; “I have something
curious to show you.” He then suspended upon the stage a curtain, whose
peculiarity was its pure, soft blue color, like an Italian sky.

“Watch,” said he, pointing his uplifted finger to the hanging.
Presently appeared upon it figures like shadows on a phantasmagoria.

One form was that of a female sitting upon a low chair, apparently
reading a book.

“That,” said Poe, “is Miss D. I can control her and will her to reflect
her figure upon the curtain; and that man is T.L. Harris. It is my own
invention,” said he; “I studied it out and applied chemicals to my
canvas till it produced this sensitive surface. All I have to do is to
send my thoughts to them, and will them to appear, and there they are.
Coleridge has a similar curtain, and some few others. But it requires
a peculiar spirit brain to magnetize the subject sufficiently.” He
offered to show me in the same manner any friend of mine with whom he
could come in rapport.

This proposition delighted Morris and I, and we spent an agreeable
evening in seeing certain of our friends on earth thus revealed.

Some were busy eating at the time, the _gourmands_! Others, more
studious, were poring over books and papers, and one, whose name I
shall not mention, was reproduced in the very act of making love!

The, dear old faces awakened such sad memories, and the occupations
in which they were engaged were in the main so ludicrous, that we
were held between tears and laughter till after midnight. But that is
an Irish bull--for you must know that we have no night in the spirit
world. Our diurnal revolutions are so rapid, and the atmosphere so
magnetically luminous, that it is never dark here. But, however,
according to earth’s parlance, it was midnight before we got through.

I will now bid adieu to my friends and readers until we meet again.



MARGARET FULLER

_CITY OF SPRING GARDEN_.


I am at present domiciled with my excellent friend Abraham Lincoln,
in the beautiful city of Spring Garden. This place contains between
sixty and seventy thousand inhabitants, a majority of whom are engaged
in literary and artistic pursuits. It might vie with ancient Athens
for the wealth of mind which is concentrated within its precincts. It
is not compactly built, the city covering about thrice the surface of
ground that would be occupied by one on earth of the same number of
inhabitants. The streets are handsome, the pavements being covered with
a gay enamel which is formed by dampening a certain yellow powder,
which, when hardened, shines like amber. They are laid out in circles,
surrounding a large park of several acres, which forms the centre of
the city. This park is embellished with trees and flowering plants of
every description, and does not differ materially from the extensive
parks to be found on earth, except in its management.

Booths are erected at the various gates, which are supplied with fruits
and confections free to all who present a ticket to the keeper. These
tickets are furnished by the city authorities to those who desire them.
This class is composed chiefly of children, and of grown persons who
are incompetent to supply by their labor their own wants. Here they can
walk through the pleasant grounds, rock themselves in swings, which are
numerous, and, when weary with exercise, their appetites stimulated by
the refreshing air, which circulates through its hills and dales as
freely as in the open country, they can apply for refreshments at any
one of the booths or tables within the park. A very delicious drink
manufactured from the exudence of a flower not known on earth may here
be procured. The grounds are provided with various other apparatus
for amusement and pleasure, among which are elegantly-formed sleds
on galvanic runners, which glide over the ground with swiftness most
exhilarating to the senses. Air carriages are also furnished, and, in
short, nothing is wanting for the pleasure and entertainment of the
visitors who throng daily the extensive avenues.

Forming an outer circle to the park is the main thoroughfare of the
city. The streets, as I have said, are laid out in graduated circles
which increase in circumference as they recede from the centre. The
outermost circle is bordered by trees, which form a natural wall.
This city might be called the circle of palaces, from the numerous
magnificent edifices which adorn it at every point.

The buildings are of a light, graceful style of architecture, adapted
to the climate and the out-door life which the people generally lead.

The street facing the park is devoted to the display of commodities and
creations of the spirit world and its inhabitants.

In this section are exposed to view beautiful fabrics, finer than the
web of a spider, glistening like threads of sunbeam and ornamented with
most exquisite floral designs taken from nature. Some of these fabrics
emblemize the blue heaven glittering with silver stars; others the
clouds, with sunlight shimmering through them.

Some have shadowy designs of birds and curious animals strown over a
ground of amber or violet. These beautiful devices are photographed
on the material; or, as the transcendentalist would say, they are
projected there by the will.

Electricity with us is so potent an agent that it is used for this
purpose, transferring the image and stamping it there.

These fabrics are more delicate and gossamer-like than any with which
you are familiar on earth.

Exquisite materials are not only indulged in by ladies, but _male
angels_ robe themselves in attire more fanciful and gorgeous than they
have been accustomed to wear in their first life; except, indeed, the
Orientals, who more nearly approach us Celestials in that particular.

I will state for the benefit of ladies that we have no millinery
establishments, as the females wear simply their own beautiful hair,
which they adorn with flowers and a peculiar lace, as thin as a breath.
The hair, owing to electrical conditions, is usually abundant and of
beautiful texture, forming the chief ornament of the head.

On the street I have described are also many studios for artists. These
_attelliers_ are very ornamental in appearance, being placed in the
centre of a large court. They are of various fanciful shapes, according
to the design of the artist, generally open on the sides, with a dome
supported by pillars, and resembling in form an ancient temple. Within,
they are hung with rich draperies, which are adjusted at pleasure.
The open dome admits the light and may be covered by a screen when
necessary.

These studios are all on the ground floor, and usually with airy
reception rooms attached, opening upon a court gay with flowers, birds,
and fountains, making it a pleasant retreat for the artist and his
friends. As my friend H---- gaily suggests, these accessible studios
compensate the artist for the _attics_ which he occupied on earth.

The art of painting is here carried to greater perfection than it ever
has been on earth.

As the development of the intellect in the material world depends upon
the subservience of matter to mind, so in the spirit world, the same
principle is the great motor power; for there we have matter (that is,
spirit matter), and this we work into forms of beauty as we desire.

Speaking of art, I must digress to allude to the _fête_ which we held
in our park in honor of three quite eminent artists, who have recently
arrived in the spirit world and taken up their abode in this city.

As they were all new-comers, and but slightly acquainted with our
manners and customs, we gave this celebration to surprise them, and
also as a token of our appreciation of their efforts to spiritualize
humanity; for art we regard as one of our most spiritualizing agencies.

In the centre of the park, I had forgotten to state, we have a temple
erected, somewhat resembling those of ancient Greece, and which is for
the use of orators and public singers. This temple was beautifully
decorated with garlands and paintings by spirit artists. Within it
were seated the visitors and a few friends, and without were stationed
musicians, with curious instruments of melody, such as are unknown to
earth.

Various ingenious machines for locomotion and amusement attracted
general attention. Another source of interest were the graceful and
picturesque groups of children moving in the air. At intervals, one
of the most fascinating of their number would descend with offerings
of fruits and flowers for our guests. The amazement expressed by our
visitors, as these lovely children would suddenly sweep down through
the air like graceful birds of radiant plumage was delightful for us
older inhabitants to witness.

This city contains several institutions of learning which are
accessible to all; not only those can become inhabitants of this
city who have a taste for the beauties and refinements of life, but
needy aspirants from earth may be introduced by them into these
establishments.

Previous to entering the spirit world I had supposed everything here
would be free, but I have found here, as on earth, that nothing can be
attained but by exertion, and that the great diversity of talent and of
gifts necessarily enforces a system of exchange.

All men are not alike inventive in the spirit world. The inventor, by
his fertile brain, constructs an article which the majority desire to
possess, and for that article they give him an equivalent. It may be a
picture or it may be a song.

Here the artisan is not hampered as on earth; his time--the mere time
employed in mechanical labor--is of short duration. Our facilities
for creating are so immensely superior to those of earth that but a
brief period is required for producing a result. The remaining time is
devoted mainly to the development of the mind, to amusement, and to
scientific research.

I stated in the beginning of my letter that I was visiting the home of
Abraham Lincoln. He is residing here with some members of his family,
and appears very happy and contented. The son for whose loss he grieved
amid the honors of the White House, is now his friend and companion.

Matters of state, as I learn from conversation with him, occupy his
mind but little; but he is deeply interested in humanity, and is
anxious to elevate and harmonize the whole human family.

His influence for good is powerful, and he exerts it constantly.

Theodore Parker and Hawthorne both reside in this city. Parker, as I
have been told, when he first came here, decided to devote himself to
the cultivation of land; but he has drifted again into the rostrum, and
twice a week you may see the fair maidens and gallant swains of Spring
Garden wending their way to his beautiful little home and garden in the
suburbs, where, amid the flowers, he descants to them, in his eloquent
way, on life and the attributes of the human soul, and also upon his
earth experiences.

So you perceive he exemplifies by his own actions the wise saying,
“Once a prophet, always a prophet.” His original mind cannot keep
silent, and his thoughts find readiest utterance in speech.

Hawthorne is living here with his beautiful daughter, who devotes her
attention to art.

His mind is as active as ever. He informs me that many of the mysteries
that seemed inexplicable to him while on earth are now cleared up.

I have spoken of the noble buildings of this city, surrounded by
spacious gardens and beautified by trees and flowers, fountains and
singing birds; but I have not alluded to the way in which property is
held, and the reader will naturally inquire if these handsome dwellings
are owned by their occupants.

They are not, but are simply loaned to them. Spirits congenial to those
at present residing here lived in them ages agone.

It is true, each individual taste may alter and embellish the buildings
and surroundings, but these improvements belong to the city and not
to the individuals. The titles are vested in the community, and its
members can vote, as in the case of Abraham Lincoln, in reference to
any individual coming among them.

There are three daily papers issued in the city, and only three. One
is especially devoted to reporting news from earth,--revolutions that
transpire, changes in state and national politics, recent accidents
which have thrown individuals suddenly into the spirit world, and to
recording the names, as far as possible, of persons who have deceased
from earth.

Disasters that occur on sea and land are immediately telegraphed to the
newspapers in Spring Garden and published for the use of the community.

It may be interesting to the curious to know that in cases like the
sinking of a vessel, where fifty or a hundred individuals are suddenly
ushered into the spirit world, delegates are sent out from this and
other cities to meet the sufferers and offer them the hospitalities of
the city, in accordance with their individual merits and degrees of
development.

Our method of printing newspapers differs materially from that in vogue
on earth.

Our papers might be termed photo-telegrams. A much less space is
occupied by a communication of a given length than the same would
require in your papers. We have a system of short-hand, understood by
all, similar to that used by your telegraphic operator.

We have various places of public amusement, two fine theatres which
are devoted to dramas originating with the inhabitants of our world,
and another appropriated to the representation of dramas familiar to
earth. Our places of amusement are of large capacity, hence but few are
needed; and the people of this city being congenial in their natures,
as many as possible like to assemble in one place.

The several actors who have been famed on earth appear at the theatres
in Spring Garden. Garrick, Kean, Kemble, Booth, Vandenhoff, Cooke,
Macready, Rachel, and Mrs. Siddons, visit us from time to time.

Among our distinguished actors are many who on earth were clergymen,
politicians, and of other occupations.[A]

[Footnote A: I am told that the Rev. Newland Maffit is at present a
distinguished actor in the spirit world. ED.]



GILBERT STUART.

_ART CONVERSATION_.


People are fools in religion, and worship as divine the most stupid
monstrosities ever conceived of! Only tell the masses that St. Luke,
St. John, or Mary Magdalen was the author of some absurdity, which, if
you or I had originated, they would scoff at, and they will clasp their
hands in mute admiration over that miracle of art!

So it seems to me to be with Spiritualists. Drawings devoid of taste,
hard, and out of proportion, are received by them with acclamations of
joy, and credited, if they are figures, to Raphael, and if landscapes,
to Claude Lorraine or some other great master of art.

Now I, for one, wish people would use their brains, and not be so
easily gulled.

It is truly wonderful that a spirit can make a person draw a straight
line who never could draw any but a crooked one. It partakes something
of the miraculous, I admit; and that spirits should produce likenesses,
and representations of flowers, scrolls, and ornamental designs, and
unearthly landscapes, through mediums whose powers of representation
and artistic talents have never been developed, is indeed marvellous!
but that these drawings should be called works of art, and looked upon
as the genuine offspring of those immortal painters, is ridiculous, and
a thing to be deprecated by every intelligent spirit and Spiritualist,
either here or in any other world!

Why, God Almighty himself could not take a raw, unschooled,
undisciplined hand, and produce a work of art!

If a medium is content with what he has done, if he does not comprehend
the faults of his work, if his eye and brain are not educated
artistically,--then he must stand like a machine working in a groove.

Neither Phidias nor any of his descendants could inspire a high
production through such means!

Now I do wish that _educated artists_ would seek to be controlled by us
spirits; or that those mediums whom we do influence would go to school,
and submit to the drudgery that is necessary to give them skill in
design and execution.

Then could we hope to represent something of the progress of art in the
spirit world; and would be enabled to depict marvels of landscapes, and
the seraphic beauty of the human face with its grace and perfection of
form, as it meets us in this artistic land.

Yon ask if we have galleries of art here. I should think so: art-love
is immortal! You do not suppose that Benjamin West, Washington Allston,
Henry Inman, Copely, Stuart, and we Americans who loved our art, would
be satisfied with laying down the brush, and would have contented
ourselves with singing and playing on cymbals constantly for the
hundred years or so that we’ve been here? Now, where there is a will
there is a way, and having the will, we have found the way to exercise
the genius which God gave us.

Speaking of music, the gift is cultivated here to an extent that would
set the _dilettanti_ of earth wild with ecstasy!

_Music, Poetry, Art, Oratory_, and _Scientific Research_, form the
principal occupations of the beings in this immortal world of ours, and
language is incapable of conveying an idea of the perfection which our
noble and glorious faculties have attained.

Art is about to undergo a revolution. At present too much attention is
given to the literal rendering of a fact, and imagination, which is
merely a faculty for reaching the immaterial, is checked; but ere long
painters will turn their attention to representing scenes in spirit
life, and the inspiration which attended the old masters when they
gave wings to their fancy and cut loose from identical imitation, will
return.

Let the camera and the photograph reproduce the exact outline and
minutiae, but let the artist paint with the pencil of imagination and
inspiration! Only permit imagination to have root in the material
world. As no man can become a good angel who has not developed his
physical nature in harmony with his spiritual, so neither painter
nor medium can represent the artistic beauties of the natural world,
nor of the spirit world, unless he has had a good physical training.
It is only through the _physical_ that the imagination can express
itself with beauty and correctness. Truth is beauty, and is always
proportionate; the light equalizing the dark, precisely as in the
perfection of art a mass of shadow is balanced by a proportion of light.

One of the most agreeable places of rest or there-abouts is the
artists’ rendezvous--a building larger than St. Peter’s at Home,
magnificent in structure, and filled with wonderful paintings.

Here artists and authors of all nations are to be found. You can step
in any morning and have a chat with Lawrence, Reynolds, Lessing,
Delaroche Hazlitt, Coleridge, Charles Lamb, Beethoven, Mendelssohn,
Rossini, Willis, Irving, Anthon, Sigourney, Osgood, Booth, Kemble,
Kean, Cooper, Vandenhoff, Palmerston, Pitt, O’Connel, Lamartine,
Napoleon, Margaret Fuller, Charlotte Bronté, Lady Blessington, and
others of note, who have made themselves illustrious during the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. People of congenial tastes and
aspirations can readily obtain admittance, and all freely engage in
conversation on topics connected with art and literature.

A large garden is attached to the building, filled with every manner
of fruit-tree, and is accessible to all; any poor devil of an artist
can go there and some bewitching Houri will present him with all the
delicious condiments which his taste or fancy can demand.

In these matters the inhabitants of earth need to take a lesson from us.

I prophesy that America will be a pioneer in these reformations, and
will, in some Central Park, erect a building similar to this, where
aspiring artists may receive food for the soul and the body, and where
artistic minds can meet and interchange ideas.



EDWARD EVERETT.

_GOVERNMENT_.


The Christianized world supposes that the form of government now
existing in the heavenly system is that of a monarchy; that God is the
supreme ruler of the whole universe, embracing not only the little
planet Earth, but the countless starry worlds and invisible systems
that roll through space. But more directly in its imagination does it
place him as the sole monarch and kingly ruler of the spirit world. It
seats him in fancy upon a gorgeous throne, material in every aspect of
its magnificence; a throne of gold and jewels, as described by that
Miltonic poet, St. John, in his “Revelations.”

This is the prevailing faith of Christendom; a faith which to the
majority seems knowledge as positive as the fact that Victoria rules
the British people, and sits upon the English throne.

Yet this is the conception of a people fond of barbaric pomp and
splendor. A conception unsupported by reason and at variance with fact.

Nearer to the truth was the old Greek nation; a nation which embodied
the intellect, the wisdom, and the refinement of the present age.

That nation, in its belief in the government of the spiritual universe,
was wholly Polytheistic, believing in many gods, and, as I have said,
approached nearer the idea of the form of government as existing in the
spirit world, for it is a Republic of Gods.

It is a law of the universe that all vast bodies must be divided and
subdivided into smaller ones. Every system is a constellation and every
constellation is a congeries.

In accordance with this law, the universal world of _spirit_ is broken
up, is divided and subdivided.

In these divisions and subdivisions forms of government ensue,
differing slightly one from another, according to the progressive
development of the people; and an unlimited monarchy is not known in
the spirit world.

There are some clinging to their old habits, associations, and
education, who would fain raise the representatives of royalty on earth
to the same positions in the spirit world when they become residents
there. But the effort, when made, cannot be sustained. The one-man
power is incompatible with spiritual laws and spiritual justice.

In a world where the external trappings are torn away and the internal
nature of man is exposed to observation, the prerogatives of earthly
kings have but little power.

The republican form of government is destined to overthrow all the
monarchies of earth. As the world progresses and knowledge becomes
universal, individuals will be able to govern themselves.

It has been only through ignorance and superstition, and the limited
knowledge of the masses, that the kings and emperors of earth have been
enabled to sway their jewelled sceptres over the necks of the people.
But their reign is drawing to a close; their glories have culminated;
and the day is rapidly approaching when earth will be governed even as
the heavens above are governed. As in the world of nature, “the same
chance happens alike to all,” and every child in time may become a
man and every infant a father, and the experience of one becomes the
experience of all, so in the government of the spirit world, every man
can rise and become for a space of time the patriarchal dictator of a
republic.

The prevailing form of our republic differs from that of the American
republic in many particulars. Our term of office is of shorter duration
than with you. Our directors while in office make friendly excursions
to other republics. Matters of state with us are not so weighty or
complicated as with you, nor are encroachments and reprisals so common.
We are not compelled to sustain such vast armies and navies, involving
the necessity of directing and superintending them.

As a rule, people who have entered the second stage of existence desire
a change. They desire to live with more simplicity and freedom, and are
eager to begin their new life with nobler aspirations. Therefore, they
assimilate with comparative ease with our form of government.

Our directors are our fathers. The nearest approach to our system is
the government of the Mormons in Utah. Pardon me, if, in making this
statement, I offend any delicate sensibility. I allude not to their
creed, but to their mode of public administration.

As I have stated, the inhabitants of the spirit world are divided and
subdivided into associations, or bodies, which in your world would be
termed nations and states. For example, the nation to which I belong is
represented by the American people. The nationalities of earth present
different traits and characteristics which set them apart, though in a
general aspect they present one whole. Even as in the ornithological
world different species of birds represent the feathered race, and
though differing in many particulars and forming separate varieties,
yet assimilate as a whole, so nations migrating to the spirit world
form separate nationalities. And, as I have stated, some of them,
educated in the belief of the divine right of kings, choose a form
of rule nearer approaching the monarchial than the republican. Among
such often arises a Napoleon, a man of powerful intellect, a mind to
grasp all circumstances, and a will to direct, who succeeds in placing
himself in a position which he retains for years.

But as the hereditary right of kings cannot exist in the spirit world,
the emperor or dictator is chosen by the people, as was the custom of
the ancient Romans.

Intercourse of nations with us is not bounded by the obstacles that
exist on earth. Prominent ideas prevailing among the most intelligent
masses of spirits become the views of the whole. This your own world
exemplifies. As the means of communication become more facile, as
the various arts of locomotion obliterate distance, the remote and
barbarous nations, brought into proximity with the civilized, assume
their habits, adopt their modes of action, and follow their form of
government.

I can safely predict for you a similar result. In the spirit world
those nations once most tenacious of kingly rights and of the majesty
of the throne, lay quietly down their regal crowns, and assume the
unostentatious cap of the republic. So will all the nations of earth
follow their spiritual leaders and hurl out from the round globe the
crumbling thrones and sceptres of kings and emperors and the tottering
papal chair of Rome, down, down, into the vast tomb of antiquity!



FREDERIKA BREMER

_FLIGHT TO MY STARRY HOME_.


I was in Stockholm when the ambassador, who is sent by the all-wise
Father to pilot his children to the unknown land of roses, called for
me, and I was obliged to part with the body which, though homely and
unattractive, like the dear, good “family roof,”[A] had rendered me
service in many a stormy day.

[Footnote A: Swedish term for umbrella.]

The feeling I experienced in taking my departure was like that of going
out into a pitiless storm, and it was followed by an intense prickling
sensation, similar to that familiarly known as the “foot asleep.” This,
I afterwards understood, was occasioned by the electrical current
passing through my spirit as it assumed shape upon emerging from its
old frame.

Some twenty minutes perhaps elapsed after the breath leaving the body
before I became perfectly conscious in my new form. Upon recovering
the use of my senses, my whole attention was drawn from myself to the
friends who had gathered in the room which had so recently been my sick
chamber.

As I watched them combing the hair and attiring the white, stiff
figure that lay so solemnly stretched upon the couch, my emotions were
indescribable. I endeavored to speak, but my voice gave but a faint
sound, which they evidently did not hear--as a spirit, I attracted no
attention. This caused me deep grief, for I desired them all to see me
still living.

My sad emotions were presently dispelled by the sound of most
mellifluous music bursting upon my senses; and as I turned my eyes to
discover the source from whence it proceeded, I beheld, resurrected
before me, a group of dear old friends, whose bodies were already
dust and ashes in the Swedish grave-yards, and in the cemeteries of
the old and new worlds. A hearty burst of joy escaped from my lips as
I recognized them. We laughed, cried, shook hands, and kissed first
on one cheek and then on the other, with the same enthusiasm and
naturalness we would have shown had we been inhabitants of dear old
mother Earth.

“Come, Frederika! Dear Frederika! don’t stay gazing on that old body!
Leave friends who cannot talk with you and come with us!” they clamored
on all sides. Their voices were like a full orchestra; besides, some
had instruments of music, upon which they improvised little songs to my
honor. I was fairly bewildered. Presently they formed a circle about
me and commenced whirling rapidly around and around. I felt as in a
hammock swayed by the wind; a dreamy lethargy stole over me, and I
gradually became unconscious; and thus, I am told, they bore me through
the earth’s atmosphere, out in the stellar spaces, to a new world--a
world not of the earth, earthy, but the New Jerusalem which I had so
often pictured to my fancy.

A soft, pleasant breeze blowing directly upon my face, restored me to
consciousness. I opened my eyes, and, lo! I was reclining upon a divan
in a great pavilion. The friends whom I had previously recognized were
around me, some making magnetic passes over me, others engaged in
preparations for my comfort. Upon seeing me awaken, several friends
approached with flowers and fruits. The term “flowers,” though a
beautiful appellation, gives but a faint idea of these marvellous
creations.

My attention was particularly attracted to one whose corolla was of
deep violet striped with gold, having long silvery filaments spreading
out from the cup in lines of light like the luminous trail of a comet.

In a state of delicious languor, I watched the varied wonders before
me. The pavilion, which was of silver lace or filagree woven in the
most exquisite patterns, was a hundred or more feet in circumference,
and adorned with open arches and columns on its several sides. These
columns and arches were of coral and gold, which contrasted with the
silver network, and the blossoms and foliage of curious plants and
vines which graced the interior, forming altogether a structure of
singular elegance and beauty.

Numberless forms like the fabled peris and gods of mythology glided in
and out of these arches, and approached me with offerings of welcome.
One blooming Venetian maiden presented me with a crystal containing a
golden liquid, which she said was the elixir of the poets and painters
of her nation. The name she gave it was “The Poet’s Fancy,” and she
informed me that it was distilled from a plant which fed upon or
absorbed the emanations which the active mentalities of these poetic
beings exhaled.

This information was quite new to me, and gave me pleasure, as it
accorded with my ideas of correspondence. So I sipped the “Poet’s
Fancy,” and imagined that its delicious, aromatic flavor vivified
me like rays of sunshine. If, previously, I had been charmed, I now
certainly experienced a power of enjoyment and quickness of perception
tenfold increased.

I then inquired for Swedenborg, Spurzheim, and Lavatar. “You will meet
them further on,” said she, smiling. “They are not here.” I was so well
pleased with her that I twined my arm around her fairy-like form and
we glided away together. As I desired to obtain a peep at the outside
of the beautiful pavilion, my companion led the way, pausing here and
there to present me to groups who had advanced for that purpose. The
company I found to be composed of writers and painters, interspersed
with a few of my own personal friends; and I felt gratified to
find myself so well received by those whom I had known on earth as
celebrities.

“’Tis strange,” I remarked to my companion, “that such choice minds
should all be gathered together in one place.”

“They are spirits congenial to your own,” said she. “Like attracts
like, and they have come from their respective homes in the spirit
world to welcome you here.”

“Ah,” said I, “I now begin to understand what all this fine company
means! This is my reception.”

As we were leaving the pavilion we were joined by Herr Von ----, the
celebrated Swedish naturalist who had recently entered the spirit
world. He congratulated me upon my safe arrival, and kindly offered to
act as _cicerone_ and to point out to me the marvels by which I was
surrounded.

To my astonishment, on reaching the open air I discovered that the
pavilion was located upon the summit of a lofty mountain. The face of
this mountain was of many colors and glistened like precious stones. My
friend led me to the point of a precipice on one side and bade me look
down. This I did, and beheld phosphorescent rays issuing from the sides.

“What wonder is this?” I asked. He informed me the mountain was
magnetic in its character, and that it was, so to speak, the first
station from earth, and a point easily attained by a spirit newly
arriving from that planet. He said I was not permanently to remain upon
the mountain, but was placed there until I should become acclimated to
the spirit atmosphere, and to acquire strength before travelling to
that portion of the spirit land which would form my permanent abode.

The apex of the mountain formed a flat plain about two miles in extent.
We walked onward some distance, when he pointed out to me another
pavilion, much larger than the one to which I had been borne. The
exterior form of each was alike, and resembled a Turkish mosque; the
crown-like canopy which formed the top being surmounted by a ball so
dazzling in brightness that I was obliged to turn my gaze from it. This
ball was composed of an electric combination, which shed its rays far
through space. “And,” said the good Herr Von ----, “as the pavilion is
used for the reception of the friendless and the homeless, they are
attracted and guided to it by its coruscations.”

We proceeded some steps further, and he showed me how the mountain,
which is steep and precipitous on the northern exposure, sloped into
broken chains and lower elevations on the southern; and from this
point, looking down, I beheld through the clear atmosphere a billowy
landscape, clothed with soft, rich verdure, more fresh and green to the
eye than that which covers dear mother Earth.

“How wonderful are thy works, O God!” I exclaimed, as we retraced our
steps. And I could not but reflect upon the singular trait exhibited by
Jesus of frequenting a high mountain to pray. Surely, altitude elevates
one into the spiritual state, and no doubt Christ felt nearer to the
spirit world when elevated far above Jerusalem, on the mountain-top,
amid the clouds. Thus, looking down from the sublime height, I realized
for the first time that I too was a spirit and an inhabitant of the
world in which Jesus dwelt!



LYMAN BEECHER.

_THE SABBATH_.


In the days of my ministrations on earth, it was pretty generally
believed that the Sabbath day was one of peculiar sanctity; and
that the Creator, having completed the creation of the earth in six
days, had rested upon the _seventh_ from the labor attendant on that
work. But science, which is ever at war with the Jewish record, has
established the fact that the world was not created in that short space
of time.

The multiplicity of worlds created also disprove the idea that the
Creator could have rested during any set period of time.

Some zealous skeptics, to counteract the belief in the sanctity of the
Sabbath, have asserted that mind can never rest, and that as _God_ is a
spirit, rest to him is impossible.

Even granting this hypothesis, history and research have proven the
wisdom and utility of the Jewish Sabbath, as established by the great
lawgiver, Moses.

The Jews at that time were an active, restless, laboring people. Their
industry had enriched Egypt, and having escaped from her oppressive
bondage, they were liable, in their efforts to found a nation of their
own, to carry their habits of industry to excess.

Probably they overworked their slaves, their cattle, themselves, and
the “stranger within their gates.” Their wise lawgiver, under the
direct influence of spiritual guides, promulgated this law: “Six days
shalt thou labor and do all thy work, but the seventh is the Sabbath of
the Lord; in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy man-servant,
thy maid-servant, thy cattle, nor the stranger within thy gates.”

And this commandment has been handed down from the Jewish to the
Christian nations. With the early Jews it was a day of recreation, of
dancing, and of song. The early Christians employed the day at first
in social intercourse, afterwards it became a day of sacred ordinance;
and, as copies of the Scriptures were rare, they met on that day to
hear them read, and in their simple faith would select passages and
apply them to their own necessities.

When the Christian religion invaded Pagan countries and became
established, the days which had formerly been appropriated to feasting
and sacrificing to the gods and goddesses became the fast-days of the
Romish Church.

When Protestantism arose, she swept off from her calendar these
fast-days, and returned to the simplicity of the Jewish Sabbath.

Puritanism followed and gave a literal meaning to the text, “Thou
shalt do no work.” Under her reign, all labor was suspended on the
seventh day. A strict watch was set upon the actions of the individual:
household duties were neglected: fires were not lighted or food cooked.
The great world of activity stood still.

Rest so severe embittered men’s judgment, and the Sabbath became a day
for prying into the derelictions of each other. A rigid observance was
placed upon men’s actions, and stringent laws were made to punish the
offender against this enforced rest.

So tyrannous and exacting did the Puritan observers of the Sabbath
become, that their rigid formulas created a rebellion in the minds of
the succeeding generation, and so great has been the reaction, that in
our day it has become a common assertion that “all days are alike,”
and the steam-car and the horse-car, the coach, and the hack, ply
their busy wheels through the streets of our large cities, and the
church-goers travel thereon to their different sanctuaries.

“All days are alike to God,” says the reformer; “why should we
observe the Sabbath more than any other day?” I will tell you why: a
concentration of the spiritual nature of men throughout Christendom
necessarily creates a magnetic atmosphere through which spiritual
beings can approach. The sincere and devout worshippers in every land
congregating in churches upon one day, send forth waves of magnetic
light which extend into the world of spirits. The music and the prayers
are borne upward on this current, and great batteries are thereby
formed that cannot but affect the souls in Paradise. They respond to
the music and the prayers, and worshippers in the churches feel their
magnetic influences. Those who are sincere in their religious faith
say that they feel “heaven opened to them.” Even those who attend
church from fashion, or for the purpose of meeting their friends and
neighbors, are there brought in contact with spiritual influences which
could reach them in no other way.

The experience I have gained since my entrance into my spiritual home
has given me more liberal ideas of the uses of the Sabbath, and taught
me that to the working man it is a necessary day of recreation. But I
lift my voice against its becoming one of beer-drinking and boisterous
sports. The workman who is confined to the bench or the workshop, in
the midst of a crowded city, for six days of the week, will certainly
be benefited by seeking the green fields and healthful influences of
the country; but on reaching that desirable Eden, let means be provided
for his instruction; so, while sitting under the leafy trees, his mind
may be benefited, and his bodily organism rested, rather than injured
by feasting and rioting in the public gardens and parks.

Field preaching should become a regular institution of the Sabbath; and
discourses instructing the mind in morals and sciences should be given
in the tent, or under trees, in parks and woods set apart for that
purpose. Then would, the object of the Sabbath be attained. As I have
said, the spiritual nature is more open to the reception of truth on
that day.

The state of sleepiness, which is a well-known attendant on the
Sabbath, is indicative of the magnetic influence; and those who discard
the day, and secretly pursue their active employments, would do well to
heed the remarks I have made.

Before I close, I wish to make some observations upon the present
style of preaching as compared with the sermonizing of my day. When I
occupied the pulpit, the doctrines of election and predestination were
the principal themes that engaged the attention of ministers.

Free will and coerced will were questions which puzzled the theologian.
Looking upon the Bible as an inspired book, the most careless sentence
therein expressed became a word of weighty import. We engaged the minds
of our hearers with abstract questionings and reasonings. But we never
could make the doctrine of predestination accord with that of free
will. Nor could we clearly account for the presence of evil, while we
believed the Creator to be all wise, all powerful, and cognizant of the
end from the beginning. Yet these were the topics which the minister
of my day discussed and endeavored to make clear to the comprehension
of his hearers. We did not treat of every-day life; the pulpit we
considered too sacred for such topics. Religion with the masses became
an abstract state of holiness. Men assumed long faces and sober
bearings upon the seventh day; but their every-day life was something
different, which the minister and his ministering did not reach.

But the pulpits of to-day are platforms of another kind. They have
altered, even as their shape has altered. Their outward construction
corresponds to their teachings. In my day the pulpit was narrow and
straight, and was lifted high above the people. But at the present
day a step only separates it from the congregation. It is broad, low,
and open. The teachings received from it correspond with its change
of form. The ministers of to-day are one with their flock. Their
discourses are practical, relating to every-day affairs. They no more
discuss the questions of Satan, of angels, and archangels, nor arouse
an undefined fear by descanting on the mysterious prophecies of Daniel:
they talk to you like _human beings._

I remember being somewhat shocked while listening to sermons preached
by my son, H.W. Beecher. I recall sitting near his pulpit, and longing
to get up and tell the congregation my views of texts and matters of
which he was discoursing. I thought then it was because the race was
going backward--becoming less intellectual--that men should be content
to listen to sermons that contained so little theology. But experience
in spirit life has caused me to change my opinion.

I now see that Beecher, Spurgeon, and a vast host of others, are
teaching human souls the great truths which will fit them for life
hereafter. I have done now with endeavoring to solve improbable
problems, and with simple faith in man’s efforts for his own
progression, I give my testimony as to the uses of the Sabbath, and the
advantages of religion in advancing their progress, and in preparing
the spirit for its future home.



PROFESSOR GEORGE BUSH.

_LIFE AND MARRIAGE IN THE SPIRIT WORLD_.


The two worlds--the spiritual and the material--are like twin sisters
whom I have seen, so similar that their acquaintances could not
distinguish between them, and yet so dissimilar that an intimate friend
would wonder why one should ever be mistaken for the other.

I propose to give a short account of the society and conditions of life
in the spiritual spheres.

The Swedenborgian Society of which I was a member while on earth,
continues to exist as a body in the spirit world, though Swedenborg,
the great seer and founder of that sect, is not a leader among them.
He has his country seat in Swedenborgia, a beautiful and intellectual
settlement named after him, where he retires within himself, and
directs his great mind in developing his science of correspondences,
which he proposes to arrange so systematically that it will become a
part of the teachings of earth’s children.

It was never his design to become the leader of a sect, but his desire
was simply to reveal like a telescope that which was unknown. He is
deeply interested in the political condition of Sweden, Norway, and
Germany, and exerts his vast intellect towards emancipating the minds
of those nations from the bondage of church and state.

It is curious to witness with what fidelity Swedenborg described in
many instances the condition of the soul after death; and also to
perceive in other instances how utterly he misinterpreted the visions
presented.

Such discrepancies are incidental to all clairvoyant states; and this
is not surprising, for it is incidental to humanity.

Man sees clearly when the prejudices of education and the influence of
his loves do not pervert his vision.

What political economist, strongly biased in favor of one mode of
government, can contemplate dispassionately an opposing form?

The theological belief which Swedenborg imbibed in his early youth,
tinctured his description of the heavens and hells of the spirit
world, causing him to represent the soul as reaching a period in its
love of evil when it cannot retrace its steps. The hells of the spirit
are similar to the hells of earth, being like them the result of the
ignorance and perverted loves of animal man.

What hell more fearful than the hell of licentiousness? Yet it is
merely the animal side of the heaven of love.

Swedenborg discovered hells in spiritual existence, where the inmates
lived lives of prostitution. His statement concerning such hells is
true. Individuals who have lived such lives upon earth cannot suddenly
be transformed. Their habits become _spiritual diseases_ with them.

Now, as to marriage, the mere form does not make the wife different
from the courtezan, but her love exalts her above that condition. If
she be united to a man who is repulsive to her nature, and yet submits
to his embraces for the considerations of family, or home, or public
opinion, she is on the same plane with the courtezan.

It is a proposition generally believed, that there is a soul-mate
for every human being, and it is usually supposed that in the spirit
world those mates are found, and that those united there live together
inseparably. But as there exists in the spirit world the same states,
the same variety of progressive development among men and women as
in this world, so unions are formed there in which one soul develops
beyond the capacity of the other, and in such cases changes must ensue.

I will now speak of marriages more in detail.

In the summer land the union of the man with the woman occurs from
very similar causes to those which bring about like unions upon
earth--the man is drawn to the woman and the woman to the man through
the operation of a natural law. If instinct were not so impaired by the
cultivation of the external faculties, there would arise but little
difficulty--on earth in selecting partners adapted to each other.
Considerations of wealth and position are permitted to influence your
selections rather than the idea of congeniality and adaptability.

In spirit life this method is reversed, and the marriages formed there
are productive of greater happiness than those among men in the first
condition of life.

But as I have stated, marriage in the spirit world is not an
indissoluble bond. Some minds associate together in harmony and expand
in the same direction, and with these the union is permanent. I have
seen such in the spirit world,--beautiful and noble souls intertwined
and aspiring together.

There be others whose states and conditions after a time become
changed. Such seek new companions, and this is permitted without
discredit to the individuals.

Many forms of marriage ceremonies are extant in the different societies
and countries. Garlands of flowers and symphonies of divine music are
bestowed upon the bride and groom. Bright bands of spirits from the
celestial heavens attend them, for they represent in their love and in
their wedded joy the harmonies of nature!

While they love, sin, sorrow, darkness, and all evils shrink from sight.

From these spiritual marriages are born soul attributes. Human beings
are never generated in the second condition; they need what is known as
the material world for their nurture and growth; and yet I understand
that in some of the more refined spiritual existences births have
occurred. The beings born there are indigenous--not generated by earth
parents, but offspring of those refined conditions.

I know not of this as a fact; yet if we take the old Jewish Bible as
a history, we find an analogous statement there in the assertion that
Christ was born of God in a spiritual state of existence previous to
entering this earth plane.

Spirit soils and atmosphere interblend and produce trees, shrubs,
flowers, and the cereals, but the human being, after the second birth,
ceases to reproduce his species. His children are thoughts born of the
spirit. After birth succeeds death. The soul passes through many stages
of existence in the process of refinement. The next state of existence
to the material, I term the spiritual, and the one beyond that the
celestial, and beyond that the seraphic.

In the next state, to which I in common with all men who have not
passed some hundreds of years in the spirit world belong, individuals
pass through a condition analogous to death upon the earth.

Spiritual bodies are subject to a process of refinement and decay; and
the soul, as the winged butterfly to which it is likened, throws off
its cerement and assumes a new form.

But with us the transmigration is not veiled in darkness and mystery as
with you. We can watch the transformation; we can see the spirit emerge
from its old casement more ethereal than ourselves, but still visible;
and we can hold communion with it.

So slight is this change with us that your mediums seldom touch upon
the fact.

Spirit is inseparable from matter, and can give neither form nor
expression without it.

The Great Invisible Creator of the Universe must have thought of trees,
flowers, beasts, birds, fish, and the wonderful exhibitions of form
through the vast realm of matter, previous to their existence.

But he had to give them shape in matter--perishable but re-creative
matter; and if the Master-mind of all cannot express his thought
otherwise than with this ever changing, yet ever reconstructing
thing called matter, how can the human soul manifest but through a
spiritualized condition of matter, ever changing yet ever re-creating
and refining, mounting higher and higher, from the earthly to the
spiritual, from the spiritual-to the celestial, on--on--till finally
reaches Deity--himself!



JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH

_ACTING_.


All great actors are media for spirit influx. It would be a marvellous
sight if the curtain which hangs between the spirit world and the stage
were uplifted, and the invisible drama which is being enacted exposed
to view. Then would you behold “the airy spirits” to whom Shakspeare
so truthfully alludes, moving like comets in gorgeous light around the
inspired actor!

Inspiration is _motion, acceleration, intensity_; it has no part or
parcel with lethargy.

I recall my past experience, portions of which I review with regret. In
endeavoring to obtain this energy, this motion, this acceleration, I
was obliged in my ignorance to resort to artificial means. A knowledge
of the laws of spirit life would have enabled me to have avoided this
mistake; but that knowledge I did not possess.

The actor of the present day is blessed with the knowledge that he
has merely to throw himself into the magnetic state, and become _en
rapport_ with spiritual conditions, to find himself inspired--inflated
with the divine magnetic current which flows from the spirit world to
the inhabitants of earth. If a player desires to represent a certain
character,--let it be the subtle, fiend-like Richard III. or the
crafty Richelieu,--the customary mode of studying such characters is
to endeavor to imagine one’s self to be the person. That is the first
step towards mediumship; for it is one degree from the natural, towards
the superior state. Usually, through ignorance, the student proceeds no
further than this point; and the spirit assistants can only partially
aid him. But an actor possessing the knowledge of placing himself
_en rapport_ with these characters, whether traditional or real, is
immediately cut loose from his surroundings and becomes the Richard or
Richelieu whom he would personate.

From the brain of every spirit medium ascends a blazing sun, which
burns the brighter when the magnetic relations between it and the
spirit world are most perfect. This blazing light, this radiant
effulgence, is perceived instinctively, though not knowingly, by every
individual who listens to a discourse from a “trance medium.” So
from the brain of the actor this glorious light throws out its rays
into the assembly, and when he becomes fully inspired, its magnetic
influence is felt with overpowering vividness; and the result is, the
audience themselves are set in motion, and from pit to gallery you hear
vociferous applause.

There are actors who are good, and who acquire fame, who have never
felt this divine afilatus. The intellect of the audience appreciates
them for their declamation, for the art and artifice which they
manifest; but the humblest and most illiterate of that assembly know
well that this studied eloquence does not fire the brain.

But it will not do to trust blindly to spirit control; a knowledge and
constant study of human nature is necessary.

It is a well-known fact that a person steadily looking at one point
will influence twenty others to look at that point also, and to imagine
they see some object before them. Understanding this principle, you may
work upon each attribute in the minds of your audience. If fear is to
be aroused, do as your neighbor does as he hastily enters your house
after meeting with a fearful calamity. You become excited before even
hearing the evil which has befallen him. Every faculty can be acted
upon in the same manner--grief and joy alike.

Of the ventriloquial powers of the human voice, many speakers are
ignorant. The tyro on the stage wishing to make the remotest individual
in his audience hear, bawls at the top of his lungs. He is unaware
that the organs of the human voice are a kind of electrical machine,
governed by the will-power, and that the actor has merely to throw his
will and direct his mind to a given point, for his voice to reach that
point and produce a far more startling effect than the loudest blast
that any pair of lungs could bring forth. Thus the lowest whisper can
be made to tell at the farthest corner of the theatre.

But perhaps I have said enough of the methods best adapted to produce
representations of character on the stage. The question may arise in
the mind of the reader, whether there is any opportunity of exercising
the talent of acting in the spirit world, supposing that talent to have
been cultivated in this.

In the remotest ages, and among the most uncultivated nations, as well
as among the most highly civilized, the power of representing human
passions and events has been exercised instinctively, showing this
power to be as much a portion of the soul’s attributes as the gift of
thought or of fancy. If one belongs to the immortal condition, the
other does also.

One of the chief enjoyments which the all-wise Creator has made
attainable to the inhabitants of the starry heavens is that of dramatic
representations of life, character, and events, transpiring in the
countless worlds that wheel through space.

The field of the actor for depicting the truths of human nature in the
world of spirits is vast and unconfined!

Eloquence is appreciated on earth, but that appreciation is weak and
tasteless compared with the estimation of that “gift of the gods” by
the inhabitants of the summer land.

Some blind, short-sighted investigators tell you there is no speech
among us; they would lead you to imagine that we inhabit a world blank
and void of sound; that stillness more unbroken than the grave pervades
our mysterious realm.

Conjure up the picture in your fancy, reader--the soul shrinks back
from such a state! The spirit world is _all_ voice. Never have I heard
notes clearer, louder, deeper, than resound through the electric air
that surrounds my home.

The gift of speaking, and of representing individualities separate from
your own identity, is a spiritual gift decidedly; and with us theatres
and amphitheatres are as numerous as churches are with you. I will
leave the description of these structures for the ready pen and speech
of our friend Burton.



JOHN WESLEY.

“_THE DIVISION OF THE CHURCH OF CHRIST, INTO SEVERAL BODIES, AND ITS
RE-ORGANIZATION INTO ONE GENERAL BODY.”_


I will take for my text this sentiment from the New Testament: “I will
draw all men unto me, and there shall be one church and one people.”

The church which was organized by our Lord[A] Jesus Christ was designed
to establish a feeling of brotherhood between separate and distinct
classes of people, and to abolish the system of castes, which was the
prevailing sin of the eastern nations.

[Footnote A: The word “Lord” is used in the sense of an earthly lord
who cares for his people.]

Christ made no distinction between the Sadducee and the Pharisee, the
publican and the saint, the high priest of the temple and the lowliest
of his followers. He placed the affections above the intellect, truth
and sincerity above wealth and worldly position.

The church which he originated for many years followed in his
footsteps. But as it increased in numbers it accumulated wealth,
and with wealth came power, and from that power issued discord and
separation.

Thus, the church divided and subdivided, and split into a thousand
pieces, formed new interests, created new beliefs, and sowed dissension
and envy with a free hand.

Such has been the condition of the church for the past ten or twelve
centuries. Meanwhile, in the Heaven of Heavens, has arisen a powerful
movement directed towards restoring it to its original state of purity
and simplicity. This great movement, like a mighty river seeking its
outlet, has rushed on, diverging at several points, and at length found
the reservoir it sought in what is termed _Spiritualism_.

The spiritualistic movement opened the gates for the expression of
skepticism, which the formalism, the tyranny, bigotry, and externalism
of the Church awakened in the minds of the people of every enlightened
Christian nation; and the result has been a criticism so pungent, and
an examination so thorough and direct, into the deformities of the
Church, that she has been obliged to contemplate her own condition and
the rottenness of her position, until she fairly trembles at the view
of her disjointed parts.

On every hand now, at the present moment, efforts are being made to
consolidate--to rejoin. On one side you behold the Protestant Episcopal
Church offering to unite with the Methodists, from whom, since my day,
they have stood aloof, as an illegal and fanatical people whom they
could not fellowship.

On the other side, you see them stretching to the Roman Church, forming
a brotherly compact of forms and ceremonies with Papacy.

One branch of the Presbyterian Church wears the robes of the Roman
Church, and thus that is linked to Catholicism.

All these denominations which have stood apart so long, whose theology
has been so antagonistic, are now merging into one Church.

In the face of the great danger which Spiritualism or Liberalism has
brought to their sight, they endeavor to return to their first estate,
but in returning they lose their identity.

This result is sure, though unperceived by them.

One by one, they will give up this point of difference and that point
of difference, this creed and that creed, for the sake of harmony.
This vestment they lay aside, and that form, until they will all
be swallowed up, and neither Methodists nor Calvinists, Baptists
nor Lutherans, Armenians, Jews, nor Gentiles, will remain. Then the
primitive Church of Christ will be revived again upon earth, simple and
unostentatious; its creed will be the creed of Jesus Christ:

“The brotherhood of man, and the love of God for his children.”

This creed, you perceive, embraces the whole of the spiritualistic
faith, which is causing these great changes throughout the Church of
Christ on earth.

       *       *       *       *       *

At this point it will not be inappropriate to make some allusion to the
mysterious sounds which occurred in my house in Lincolnshire, England,
at intervals within the space of three or more years during my earthly
ministrations.

These mysterious sounds, even in that day, were supposed to have been
caused by spirit agency. I have ascertained that that supposition
was correct; and my attention has since been directed to the fact in
Church history, that every separation from the Church body which has
originated in a desire to return to the simplicity and purity of the
primitive followers of Jesus, has been attended by similar mysterious
demonstrations.

Luther and Mclancthon, Knox and Calvin, and the earnest dissenters
and reformers of every age, have been haunted in like manner. I say
haunted, for they generally have misunderstood the aim of these
spiritual visitants.[A] It has devolved upon the scientific researches
and the skeptical but investigating mind of the nineteenth century to
form a process by which the spirit of the departed can communicate with
the dwellers in Time.

[Footnote A: The spirit of Rev. Dr. John M. Krebbs, of New York, states
through this clairvoyant that the cause of his mental aberration while
on earth was a misinterpretation by him of a spiritual vision which
he was permitted to receive. Thus misunderstanding the aim of his
spiritual visitants, he became haunted with a fallacy which ultimated
in his death. ED.]

To me this science was unknown. Had I been acquainted with the facts
with which I am now familiar, I might have established a more liberal
Church, but as it was, this daily association with an unseen spiritual
presence enlarged my views of the condition attending the soul after
death, and caused me to give utterance to thoughts which happily have
aided in preparing the world for the Universal Church which ere long
will lift its towering dome toward Heaven.



N.P. WILLIS.

_A SPIRIT REVISITING EARTH_.

(A FRAGMENT.)


                      How wondrous I
Through illimitable space, where myriad suns
And systems roll their mighty orbs,
The spirit moves like some strange wingless bird,
Darting through space with rapid flight
Until he nears his native home,
The earth.

                His home no longer;
He has become the denizen of a world
More rare and beautiful than earth.
With quickening pulse and grand emotion
He gazes down upon the globe,
Whose habitations he has left forever!
Cities with their palaces and towers,
Surging seas, leafy forests, and fields of grain,
The towering mountain and the massy
Icebergs of the Polar sea sweep past
His sight like fading visions.



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

_ALONE_.


Far away from earthly care,
Free as a bird, I soar through air,
And think of thee in thy sad, lonely home,
Watching and waiting for thy love to come.
Dost thou hear me call thee, Sweet! Sweet!
Many the years till we shall meet.

My spirit home is bright and fair
With flowers and birds and wonders rare.
Seraphic the faces that on me smile,
But the one I love is on earth the while,
Will she hear me calling, Sweet! Sweet!
Many the years till we shall meet.

Many the years I’ll watch and wait
Till I see thee at the golden gate,
Then in my arms will I bear thee away
To my jewelled home where sunbeams play.
Then together we’ll sing, Sweet! Sweet!
Well worth the waiting thus to meet.



BARON VON HUMBOLDT.

_THE EARTHQUAKE_.


This mysterious and awful visitant, which convulses the earth
apparently without warning, is, however, like all the manifestations
of nature, preceded by signs which the observing and understanding eye
can perceive and calculate upon as unerringly as the astronomer can
determine the approach of a comet.

The inhabitable earth is merely a shell or crust over the great mass
of uninhabitable matter. The world beneath the earth’s surface is as
diversified as the world above. It has its mountains, its streams, its
plains, its caverns, and its internal volcanoes.

As fearful storms, accompanied by lightning and rumbling thunder, sweep
over the earth’s surface, so beneath the crust occur electric storms,
accompanied with terrific combustions of gases, which in their efforts
to escape convulse the outer earth, and in many cases rend the shell
asunder.

The earthquake which has recently (August 13, 14, 15, and 16, 1868)
shaken the Pacific coast was occasioned by the discharge of the pent-up
gases beneath, and also in part by the heated condition of the outer
surface.

The “tidal phenomenon,” as it is called, is the effect of the
electrical condition of the earth beneath. The chemical components of
the sea form a sensitive magnetic body, which is subject to attraction
and repulsion, and as the magnetic current extended for several
thousands of miles, and was caused by a collision of negative and
positive forces, the sea was attracted and repulsed along the whole
line of the internal commotion by the action of these forces.

The northern portion of this globe has in times past suffered from
convulsions similar to those which now visit the tropical climates.

The fearful privations and heart-rending calamities which visited the
earlier inhabitants of the earth are only known to the student of the
cosmos of nature after he has attained the second birth.

The forces within and around the earth are now in comparative
subjugation, but in the earlier periods of its existence, while still
it was in the process of changing from a state adapted to a lower
condition of animal life to one fitted to a higher state of animal
and intellectual existence, the elements were in a frequent state of
rupture and disorder.

No mortal pen can depict the scene which I recently witnessed on the
occurrence of the earthquake on the Pacific coast. Forty thousand souls
arising amid smoke and blackened clouds of flying stones and upheaving
earth, with outstretched arms, and faces strained with horror, emerging
suddenly from their old bodies into their spirit-forms--looking
awestruck into each other’s faces; a vast swarm clinging together
almost as helplessly as young bees to their hive--suddenly cut off from
their occupations and their pleasures, their homes, and their familiar
affairs of earth!

But what they experienced, proud and noble cities of the past have
experienced likewise. Grace and ornament, art and grandeur, beauty,
love, and manly strength have been swept away time and again by the
bursting of the treacherous doors that lead into the heart of the earth!

Change marks the footsteps of the Creator. The solid mountain, the
firm, unyielding earth, which to the unthinking mind seem durable and
eternal in their strength, like mankind carry within themselves the
seeds of their own dissolution.

Yet the day will come when man, by the aid of science, will, through
these premonitory symptoms, foresee the coming events, even as the wise
physician can discern the time when his patient’s soul will leave its
body.

Nature misunderstood is a fearful mystery; but understood, she is a
simple and beautiful piece of mechanism; and the earthquake may not
be more disastrous than the flood or the avalanche when science and
experience have taught men to avoid the localities of danger, and to
watch the hour of its approach, that they may flee before it.

Nature is never abrupt in her actions. She heralds her intentions
long before she enacts them, but as it requires the quick ear of the
savage--the child of nature--to detect the far-off prey, so it requires
the student of nature to discover the distant tread of the earthquake.



SIR DAVID BREWSTER

_NATURALNESS OF SPIRIT LIFE_.


The human mind is subject to false and specious reasoning, and time
after time opinions which have been held and argued upon with seeming
logical acumen, have, by further developments and discoveries, been
proven fallacious. And yet of so elastic a nature is the mind of man
that he is not crushed nor discouraged by his mistakes, but immediately
commences to build new theories; but as he establishes them by
specialties instead of generalities, he is again defeated.

The European mind has adopted a certain line of thought respecting the
future state of existence, which it substantiates by narrow reasonings
and isolated facts.

Of the future we can only judge by analogy of the past with the present.

Nature ever shadows forth her new developments upon the old.

The many periods or stages through which the earth has passed in
reaching her present state of refinement, have been stamped one upon
the other so that the Geologist can determine definitely what would
be the result of a certain period from the characteristics of the
foregoing.

Now it is educible: if the Creator of the race of men who inhabit the
terrestrial globe had intended for them a future state or destination
differing in every respect from their present one, he would have
prepared their minds for different pursuits, and ordained them for
other occupations than those they follow to the very grave.

Take man in his most natural condition--examine those nations that are
most ancient, and unmixed with other races--and you will perceive that
their ideas of a future state were in accordance with the life they
were living on earth.

The Asiatic race in burying its dead prepares the favorite food of the
deceased, the fragrant tea, and the money so useful on earth. Also
slips of paper on which messages are written to departed friends are
lighted at these burial ceremonies, and reduced to ashes, that the
spirit of the text may be transmitted to their friends in the world of
souls.

In these “Pagan rites,” as they are termed, we discern the workings
of an intuitive belief that the spirit of man still retains the
sensations, attributes, and desires which have accompanied it through
life.

The ancient Greeks and Romans held similar opinions, likewise the
Africans, Hindoos, and the Indians of North and South America.

By far the largest portion of mankind believe in a _natural state_
hereafter, corresponding to their earth existence, but the European
nations which are supposed to be advanced in science, art, and
philosophical attainments beyond all the nations of the earth, have,
in their speculations and in their efforts to penetrate the mysteries
of the world of spirits, lost sight, of the natural and entered
the supernatural, where they are surrounded by fogs, clouds, and
_ignes-fatui._

Now if these people are told that the spirit world is divided into
states and continents, cities and towns, as is their own world (though
under spirit appellations), they would scoff at the statement.

But as mankind has a natural love of locality, and as congenial minds
will select similar locations, adapted to their ideas of beauty and
comfort, the result is that spirit inhabitants unite and form cities
and towns as on earth. Thus combining, they must have some points of
interest to occupy their minds, and as they still possess their power
of construction and ingenuity, their love of beautiful forms and of
architecture, they prefer not to live in the open air and on the bare
ground (as they can certainly do), but choose rather to employ their
various faculties in building cities and habitations in accordance with
their tastes and ideas of convenience.

Once grant that man is provided with a spiritual body after he emerges
from his original one--accept the hypothesis that this body must
possess form and sensation, and with sensation, eyes, ears, mouth,
taste, and motion--then you must provide means for that body to exist.
In providing these means you must place him upon a soil capable of
producing vegetation, where his intelligence may compound the various
articles adapted to his use.

Some individuals enter the spirit world deformed, some feeble in
intellect, some incapable of constructing or arranging. All these must
have provision made for them; their wants must be supplied. The effort
to supply want or demand produces a system of exchange or barter.

Many of the inhabitants of the spirit world are both good and kind.
They are spiritualized in their natures, and are influenced by a desire
to assist those who are needy.

Nature, or God, has ordained that existence should depend upon effort;
that a state of inactivity should produce dissolution; and much the
same means are taken there to enforce activity as in the material world.

True, some men possess natural gifts, by which knowledge is acquired
without labor. The power of seeing before the demonstration belongs
to all humanity. It is the negative form of knowledge; but combined
with that power is the positive, which compels man to desire a visible
representation or demonstration of the knowledge he has received by
intuition.

The astronomer thus, before he constructs his telescope, perceives
intuitively the very stars which his telescope proves as existing,
where none are visible to the eye.

It was this active-positive principle, that made him construct the
instrument; and in the spirit world, as on earth, that active-positive
principle acts in conjunction with the negative-intuitive one, in
impelling him to exertion, and forcing him to acquire knowledge in
every department of science, art, philosophy and religion. As well
expect this earth to rest in her revolution and still retain her place
in the solar system, as to suppose that the spirit of man can lose its
activity and sink to rest eternal.

Man is not only active in constructing and exploring in the spirit
world, but he is also engaged in inventions. Most of the discoveries
that have lessened manual labor and made gross matter subservient to
man’s use originated in the land of spirits. The inventor finds full
field for his talents in the superior state.

Man naturally delights in knowledge, and the individual who knows
how to construct a steam locomotive finds a thrill of satisfaction
in the possession of that ability. So does he who can arrange and
construct any piece of mechanism, any domestic tool. That feeling of
gratification at the accomplishment of his plans accompanies man to the
spirit life.

All persons do not follow the same pursuits in which they were engaged
on earth, yet they adopt a kindred and congenial employment. The
clergyman thinks his work done when he leaves the earth; but in the
next state, also, he will find beings who need to have their spiritual
and moral natures instructed--men who desire to be led--who cannot
think for themselves, but lean upon the thoughts and inferences of
others.

So with almost every pursuit--there is opportunity to exercise it in
the world of spirits. The painter finds nobler themes for his pencil,
more angelic faces for his canvas; and the desire to reproduce them
as they appear is as intense there as it is here. Although a spirit
can impress his form in color and raiment upon the sensitive plate in
the spirit world, and the image remains fixed and permanent (for the
photographic art is essentially spiritual in its origin), that result
though definite, is as unsatisfactory to some minds in the spirit
world as it is in the natural. And thus, while persons differ in
their desires and perceptions, there will be the same varied modes of
expressing thought in the superior life as in this.

The question is often asked, “Why should immortals walk, when they can
move with greater velocity than light?”

In return I would inquire, “Why, when men can travel by the
steam-engine, do they prefer the slow movements of the horse?”

Again, it is asked, “Why, if spirits can converse by
thought-language--if they can express with their eyes, or impress
magnetically their wishes, or the words they desire to utter--why
should they employ their vocal organs?”

But I rejoin that the deaf and dumb on earth converse by signs with
great celerity, yet would gladly express their thoughts with voice also.

Many trancendentalists and idealists fancy that the inhabitants of the
spirit world do not converse audibly; yet they would be greatly shocked
if told that in that world there reigned one vast silence; that sound
was unknown; and yet such a condition would exist, if their mode of
reasoning were correct.

No unbiased person would suppose for a moment, that song was unheard
in this land of the immortals; that the voices of the spirit maidens
never burst forth into melody; and that they could not give utterance
to their feelings and sentiments, in the warbling notes of music!

Spirits can read each other’s thoughts, although possessing a universal
spoken language, and also retaining in many sections the native dialect
they used on earth.

Though the spirit world is a world of marvels and miracles, and things
unutterable, which the tongue cannot express, yet it is a world similar
to the natural one; a glorified body of the old earth.

The soul visiting that new country will not feel itself an utter
stranger on its shore, but will find that it can assimilate with the
thoughts and feelings of the residents of that land, and the knowledge
and experience which it developed on earth will be useful to it there.

If the teachers on your planet, and those who instruct concerning the
condition of the soul after death, would employ the same reason and
intelligence that they exercise in investigating any other obscure
subjects--either chemistry, astronomy, or natural philosophy,--they
would arrive at more truthful data respecting the spirit globe which
ultimately they are all destined to inhabit.



H.T. BUCKLE.

_THE MORMONS_.


Looking upon the world, the voyager through space discerns vast tracts
of land, uninhabited barren wastes, and immense forests echoing only
the tread of the wild beast and the cries of birds of prey.

It becomes the duty of the political economist to reclaim these lands
and place them in the hands of civilization.

How is this to be done? Shall it be by following in the beaten track of
custom? No: it can only be accomplished by the zeal of the enthusiast.

Joe Smith was an inspired man; even as Columbus was he inspired.
Through his agency a colony was started near the dismal Salt Lake.
Through his agency, and by the aid of his apostles or followers,
the hardy men and women from the overcrowded population of Europe,
cramped by man, and priest-ridden, have been brought across the ocean
into republican America. They have been placed in this seemingly
unpropitious Salt Lake country. There they have founded a city; they
have erected factories and mills. The steam engine, the plow, and the
sewing machine have aided them; and now, in place of a company of
barbarous peasants, ignorant and benighted, and steeped in poverty, you
find them transformed into energetic, intelligent citizens, surrounded
with comforts and luxuries.

And all this has been brought about by a religious enthusiast; by an
enthusiast whose religion is believed to be inferior to the religion of
Protestants.

Imagine for a moment what result would ensue from a movement of this
kind set on foot by the followers of the Protestant religion as it is
taught by the churches of the present day. No theatres or places of
amusement would add gayety to the sombre city. The dance and the sound
of mirth would be hushed. The inhabitants would walk ever in solemn
fear of the awful future that might await them; they would despise
their physical frames, crucify their passions, and trample under foot
the most divine attributes of their nature.

But the religion of the Mormons is a natural religion; it is primitive.
They people the world even as God peopled it in the time of Abraham and
Isaac.

They enrich the state by their tithes. They bring in their corn, their
wine, and their fruits, as offerings, and the state pays them back by
improving their roads and building houses for instruction and pleasure
for them.

Their domestic system, which has been so much despised and ridiculed,
does not greatly differ from the custom of the civilized world. Such as
are wives with them become with you the neglected women of the town.
What with you is considered dishonorable, with them becomes honorable.

The man of wealth in Utah does not concentrate his riches on a few
relatives; he distributes it among his many wives and numerous
children. In all times, nations which have grown rapidly and have been
developed in arts and sciences have been peopled in the same manner.
The female element introduces into a community taste, ornament, and
grace. Look at California previous to the emigration of women to that
land! Misrule and misery reigned. It is a law of nature that men
and women should be united. In the present form of civilization, a
large proportion of women are compelled to remain single, and their
usefulness to community and humanity is dissipated. The Mormon system
eradicates this evil.

The progress of civilization points to a time when a magnetic relation
shall be established between all the inhabitants of earth; when the
globe shall form one vast circle of mind as it does now of matter. At
present the chain is broken; the intermediate spaces are not filled
up by population. The spirit world is using all its skill to bring
about this magnetic connection, but till this is complete the magnetic
relation between the spirit world and earth cannot be perfect.

Wise intelligences in the world of spirits have originated and
guided the Mormon movement, and these intelligences will develop new
communities under similar auspices. The legislators of the land, the
Napoleons of the day, would do well to investigate the policy of the
leaders of Utah.

The crimes common in your large cities are not known among the Mormons.
They live on friendly terms with the red men of the plains, and are
just in their dealings.

Each citizen is taught that the public welfare is his own welfare. In
your own large towns the citizens shirk public duties; but in Utah
there is a oneness of feeling, which it would be well for those who
consider themselves superior in the scale of civilization to imitate.



W. E. BURTON.

_DRAMA IN SPIRIT LIFE_.


“Honor pricks me on. Yea; but how if honor pricks me off when I come
on? How then? Can honor set-to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away
the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery, then? No.
What is honor? A word. What is that word, honor? Air. A trim reckoning!
Who hath it? He that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he
hear it? No. Is it insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not
live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it.”

What is honor? A mere word. What is Heaven? A word--a phantasy. A
vaporish place, too delicate and subtle for such fun-loving, corpulent
specimens of the Creator’s wisdom as old Jack Falstaff.

O rare Jack Falstaff! He was a child of nature, and to my thinking, his
homely phrases displayed more intuitive knowledge of the laws of nature
than the finest transcendental imaginings ever discovered.

We shock the feelings of a thousand playwrights and play-goers by
asserting that in this impalpable land of souls we are guilty of
encouraging the playhouse! But so it is; we cannot live on “honors;”
the fame and glory which has been awarded to us by our fellow-men on
earth is like chaff to us.

It was with hardly an emotion of surprise that I beheld theatres in
the spirit land, though I have seen many who, having been fed on the
false system of religion, and pampered on glittering imaginings, start
back with alarm on beholding the magnificent buildings we have erected
to the drama, thinking, that by some strange turning, they had entered
through the wrong gate.

The drama with us is a source of both enjoyment and instruction. The
history of past ages in the spirit world is enacted with thrilling
interest, and each new spirit from earth has an opportunity thus to
become acquainted with the transactions of the past in the land of
spirits.

The gay and brilliant theatre of which I have been induced to take the
management, is original in its structure, and of a light and beautiful
style of architecture. The balconies are suspended and movable. Outside
the building, and overlooking a placid sheet of water, are galleries
connected with and corresponding to those within, where persons who
desire may pass out during intermission, and regale themselves with the
fresh fruit and the fine prospect.

The partitions are constructed of light frames with ornamented pillars,
covered with a fabric resembling parchment. As the climate is warm, the
partitions on the outside of the gallery are merely trellis-screens,
and the whole building is open in structure and perfectly ventilated.

The plays which are enacted are generally composed by persons in the
spiritual condition. We have many good farces; and an unending source
of material for amusing plays is found in the relationship between
the spirit world and earth, and the eccentric conditions growing out
of that relationship. For instance, there is a laughable comedy being
enacted at my theatre, depicting the adventures of a pious merchant,
who, after the toils and cares of life, becomes a resident of the
spirit world.

The graces and beauties of the angelic women whom he meets on every
side enamour him; he forgets his past life, forgets the wife who has
ruled him on earth, and in a moment of ecstasy chooses another mate.

While in the enjoyment of his bliss, and surrounded by bands of
immortals, the news runs through the electric wire that his earth-wife
is deceased, and has come in search of him. The consternation and fear
of the poor man furnishes ample occasion for amusement, hilarity, and
fellow-sympathy.

Our tragedies are cast in a higher mould; many of them are more sublime
than those of earth, representing the catastrophes of worlds. We also
have dramas which awaken the affections, representing the condition of
those from earth who are neglected, or who, in consequence of a long
career of vice and misery, cannot be approached by friends.

These brief hints will give a slight idea of the source and character
of our dramatic representations.

Some men are born actors, as others are born painters, poets or
preachers; and in the spirit world they can no more lay aside those
powers which have become a part of them, than they can lay aside the
gifts of observation or reflection. Understanding this fact, it will
not surprise you to learn that those most famous in the histrionic art
exercise their talents to listening thousands in the spirit world.

Garrick, Kemble, Kean, Booth, Cooke, also Rachel, Mrs. Siddons, and a
host of illustrious actors of different nations, are now “treading the
boards” of spiritual theatres.

Their time, however, is not exclusively devoted to the exercise of
these gifts, as on earth. A considerable portion is spent in the study
of the arts and sciences; and many a noted actor becomes an able
painter or musician, and many a low comedian a philosopher. Our life is
one round of pleasant progression.

What I have said about our attractive theatre and my enjoyable
condition, I hope will not induce any of you, my fellow-players, to
emigrate to these shores before you are sent for; but, like good Jack
Falstaff, I trust you will live in your own world as long as you can,
and when Dame Nature is done with you, we will give you a hearty
welcome and _a free pass to the dress circle_.



CHARLES L. ELLIOTT.

_PAINTING IN SPIRIT LIFE_.


My friends know that I was not much given to writing or speaking, and I
reluctantly answer the call that has been made for me to give my views
on art in the spirit existence.

The old masters whom we have worshipped from boyhood, Raphael,
Titian, Michael Angelo, Da Vinci, and all the illustrious names of
the Bolognese and Venetian schools of art, have passed away from
this sphere of spirit life, and no longer walk the streets of these
wonderful cities which they have adorned with their works.

Reynolds, however, is with us still, and most of the army of painters
who have been born on earth since his day, here live in bodily shape;
and I have had the pleasure of meeting many admirable geniuses of
the French, German, and English schools, and have seen some of their
extraordinary works, which, for diversity of subject and majesty of
conception, seem to rival omnipotence itself!

The great majority of American artists are secretly spiritualistic
in their faith, and believe that they can be inspired by departed
painters. Innes, Page, Church, and Powers, have each felt and
acknowledged the inspiration of the spirit of some great master in art.

I must confess that these masters are not existing in the sphere
occupied by spirits who visit earth, and will explain the manner in
which they impress persons congenial and partaking of like sympathies
with themselves.

I am informed that it is not material to what sublimated sphere they
may have ascended; it is merely a mesmeric influence which they exert
over their disciples, and this influence can penetrate through all
degrees of matter.

The reason why all artists are not alike inspired by the great masters
is that they are not all subject to mesmeric influence, or on the same
plane of thought.

Every disciple of high art, I have no doubt, has observed the magnetic
quality which seems to pour forth from the canvas of any great master.

This arises from the brain effluvia which they have left upon the
canvas, which is more powerful in its quality than a grain of musk,
which will impart its odor for a hundred years.

The colors which the artists here use are formed upon the same model
as those they have been in the habit of using on earth. They are more
brilliant pigments, but color has always the same origin. Some paint
with the brush and some paint with their fingers.

I had heard it remarked that the spirit had only to breathe on the
canvas, and his thought would be represented, painted, and shaded in a
second of time.

The substance of this statement is correct, but there is a slight
misapplication of the facts.

’Tis true we have the power which we had on earth to a modified degree,
of projecting the desired form upon the canvas. I remember always,
after looking at my sitter, I could trace in imagination on the canvas
the outline and expression of his countenance. This is what we do: the
power of execution is so rapid that the time required for painting a
picture might with you pass for a moment; but it is only a trained
artist whose thoughts and comprehension are skilful enough to produce
an effect so rapidly.

Those who have not learned to give form and shape to their ideas while
on earth have to pursue a more painful and laborious process.

The modern school of color differs widely from the Venetian, being
crude, cold, and sharp in comparison; and, in accounting for this
difference, I can simply state that one can only represent what one
sees.

The poetic, dreamy age, when men saw nature as through a veil, is past;
the matter-of-fact, investigating mind has lifted that veil, and now
sees objects as if in mid-day; but, as no condition is stationary, I
am told that the mind is gradually moving on in the world of art to a
point where it will again see nature in a more subdued and generalized
light, as under the declining sun.

The past represented the morning, the present exhibits the noonday, and
the future will indicate the evening.

Such is the constant revolution of mind, and its revolution though slow
is certain.

In our works of art, sentiment is the prevailing characteristic.
Portraits are in great demand.

Spirits send portrait-painters to earth to obtain likenesses of their
friends; and those spirit-artists who have the power of seeing the
lineaments of these friends and portraying them are constantly engaged.

Leutze has been employed by Lincoln and others to represent scenes in
the American rebellion; and Colonel Trumbull, also, has executed some
magnificent pictures of the battles of Seven Pines, Fair Oaks, and a
skirmish at Hampton Roads.

Stuart has completed a splendid portrait of General Grant, and is now
engaged by John Jacob Astor on a likeness of a beautiful lady dwelling
on earth. I have received a commission from Mr. James Harper to paint
a portrait of his daughter, who occupied the carriage with him when he
lost his life. I am at present engaged on a likeness of a lady residing
at Albany.



COMEDIAN’S POETRY.

_ROLLICKING SONG_.


Hurrah! hurrah I my boys so bright,
For merry ghosts meet here to-night.
We’ll sing and dance till dawn of day,
Then up we’ll mount, away! away!
  Then up, up, and away!

We live in spirit land so gay,
And with grim Satan’s fires we play.
You need not fear the future state,
For we will meet you at the gate.
  Then up, up, and away!

Come, friends of earth, and read our bill,
’Tis called the “sugar-coated pill;”
’Twill sweeten all life’s bitter care,
And lead you up, the saints know where,
  Then up, up, and away!

Come laugh with us each man and wife;
A player’s stage is earthly life;
The sting of death is only a prick,
And _hell_ the parson’s “_trap-door trick_,”
  Then up, up, and away!

Here’s Garrick, Booth, and Kean so bright,
They shine like stars to give you light.
So haste and join the merry throng,
And loudly swell our happy song.
  Then up, up, and away!



LADY HESTER STANHOPE.

_PROPHECY_.


The star of prophecy shines in the east. To those nations who
were first in the order of creation belongs by right the power of
investigating the mysteries of life.

The people of the East have been known in all past history for their
gift of prophecy.

As water gravitates to its level, so I gravitated to the East.

I left my native land, and for many years sojourned among the wandering
Arabs. This course of action was not understood by my countrymen. They
could not see the mystic star that drew me away from their busy haunts.
The Magi of the East had stood at my cradle and endowed me with the
noble gift of the Seeress.

The power of reading the future does not belong to the Northern people.
It is the darkest and deepest well that reflects the star above it; the
dark and swarthy East is thus endowed. The pale North cannot give out
impressions. I was an exception to this rule.

There are those who at birth are possessed of Eastern
spirits--Asiatics. Andrew Jackson Davis is not a Northern man--he is an
Asiatic. Look at his olive complexion, his keen eye, his beard and hair
of jetty black, his visage,--all betray the race which inspired him.

The faculty of discerning the future belongs only to certain races, and
it cannot be universal. Many spirits profess to read the future, but
few can do so correctly.

Yet the life of man is mapped out in every particular, even before
his birth. Men are like planets. The future of the planet Earth could
have been foretold before it was thrown off from the sun and while it
was yet in a molten state; so each step in an individual life could be
foretold: yet it requires ability to enter into the peculiar magnetic
condition in order to obtain the power of foretelling. It may be said
if the future of man is thus mapped out, even as was the creation and
progression of the earth, it becomes merely a scientific affair to
prophesy the future of any given individual. This is true, but the
inquirer will observe how many hundreds and hundreds of years science
has been engaged in discovering facts concerning this world’s history.
The eye of prophecy could foresee those facts and foretell them, though
it could not lay down any scientific basis in regard to them.

The events which will take place to-morrow may be said to have already
transpired.

The water that is rising from yon creek will increase in volume.
Conditions which have been for days and weeks in preparation will
suddenly conspire, causing the stream to rise to such a height that the
city will be overflowed, bridges swept away, and certain individuals
submerged by the current and their lives lost.

This disastrous occurrence is governed by a law which the keen observer
of nature could have foretold years previous to the event.

As in the natural world the traveller in the desert beholds the mirage
of some city which is hundreds of miles distant, suddenly arising
upon the sandy waste, so, in the spirit world, the spectrum form is
projected, and events which are to take place are made visible before
their actual occurrence. But, as in the natural world spectrum forms
occur only under certain atmospheric conditions, so in the spirit world
it is the conjunction of circumstances and the blending of magnetic
currents that make it possible for coming events to be revealed upon
the level plane which is set apart for this purpose in the summer land.

Man at the present day is so constituted that a revealment to him of
coming events in detail would be injurious; and experience proves
that such disclosures, when made to him in dreams or otherwise,
are profitless, as he always fails to foil the evil of which he is
forewarned.

History and biography show that individuals have time and again, been
admonished by their assiduous friends of evils or calamities that were
to befall them, yet the admonition, though timely given, seldom enabled
them to avoid their fate. Men have been warned of murderous assaults,
but they have not evaded them; premonitions have been given of falling
buildings, and these have fallen, involving in their destruction the
loss of the individual’s life at the precise date which his dream
foreshadowed.

The time will come in the far future when man will understand prophecy
as a science. There are few persons living at the present day, who,
looking back upon their past history, would conscientiously wish it had
been all revealed to them at the outset of their career.

The withered, faded beauty, at the dawn of her life of youthful triumph
could not have endured a vision of the haggard unfortunate wretch which
she would represent in the course of a few years.

These remarks apply more especially to the so-called civilized state of
society at the present day.

The semi-barbarous nations, so termed, are in closer sympathy with
nature. Life and death, prosperity and adversity, are to them as
natural effects as the sunshine and rain of the terrestrial globe.

Their equanimity, their perfect repose upon the bosom of nature, causes
them to see more clearly into the future than do civilized nations.
There is a spirit of prophecy which does not comprehend the detail, and
only takes cognizance of the grand events of life.

This prophetic condition is attainable by every being in a certain
state of exaltation.

The poet, the painter, the statesman, the preacher, can alike in
moments of ecstasy ascend this mount of inspiration, and foretell the
advancement of the world in relation to art, science, and spiritual
development. But the oracle, the sybil of the East can penetrate a
height beyond and above this mount, and can perceive the detail of an
individual life in its minutest events.

The Bible prophecy which foretold that “knowledge should cover the
earth, even as the waters cover the sea,” and that “the wilderness
should blossom as the rose,” was given in an ecstatic vision, and was
simply a spiritual comprehension of the power of soul over matter.

As a knowledge of distance is relative, a keen perception on the part
of the prophet revealed to him, as he beheld the birds soaring in air,
that the journey to lands beyond the sea was no greater distance to
those winged creatures than a few miles would be to him. The prophecy
Isaiah made more than eighteen hundred years ago, is fulfilled to-day.
Science has annihilated space; knowledge becomes universal, and the
wilderness disappears.

The sages of centuries agone are animating the bodies of to-day. The
doctrine of pre-existence is not a fable, yet to have lived two lives
belongs only to a chosen few, or those whom a fortuitous circumstance
has blest.

Napoleon was one of these. The spirit of a great warrior took
possession of him at birth.

But the condition of a pre-existing soul taking possession of a body
can occur only under peculiar circumstances. The soul principle is male
and female, and its perfection depends upon the two sexes as much as
the formation of the body depends upon the coalition of the two. In
states superinduced by opium or intoxicating liquor upon one party, the
spirit principle becomes deadened so that an active immortal spirit may
take its place.

This male and female spirit principle, after forming a magnetic
relation by the joined bodies, lies inactive in the soul atmosphere of
the mother until material birth. If, as is sometimes caused through
accident, there is but one spirit principle active, the child when
born will be idiotic. If the male or female spirit of the pre-existing
intelligence is of superior order, then the child, as its intellectual
faculties develop, will display extraordinary abilities, which will be
in accordance with the peculiar development of the pre-existent spirit.

The history of individuals thus circumstanced can be more clearly
discerned than others. Prophecy in bold and clear characters foretells
the events which will transpire in their earth life.

In like manner Jesus, the celebrated child of Bethlehem, had lived
a pre-existent life on earth. He had reigned over a people in his
previous life, a wise and loving king. Vague remembrances continuously
fluttered across his vision and colored the thoughts to which he gave
utterance.

When his mother conceived him, she was not conscious; delirium of
religious ecstasy, superinduced by priestly influence, rendered her
oblivious to events, and enabled this wise, tender, loving king to take
the place of the native spirit. Christ never married in this life,
because the spirits which possessed him were not male and female.[A]

[Footnote A: The well-known eccentric character of this writer while on
earth may partly explain the singular views here set forth. ED.]

The power of foretelling the future is yet in its infancy. Coming
events are said to cast their shadows before; and as the barometer
indicates to a skilful eye the approach of a storm when no sign is
visible in the calm sky above, so the events which will befall an
individual are marked upon the delicate spiritual barometer which forms
a part of his being, and can be read with unerring precision by the
clear and practiced eye of the optimist.



PROFESSOR MITCHELL.

_THE PLANETS_.


The worlds of light that nightly illume the firmament of earth are not
mere spheres of uninhabitable matter, nor are they simply appendages
to earth,--glittering ornaments to attract the eye of man,--but vast
systems of suns and tributary planets, with worlds whose products and
inhabitants far exceed in organized development those of this little
planet Earth, whose astronomers are just beginning to realize the
capacities of the worlds revealed through their telescopes.

Many of these worlds have existed centuries prior to the formation of
the planet you inhabit, and their inhabitants have attained a degree of
civilization which only time can give to you.

The intellectual development of many of the dwellers of these planets
is as far superior to your highest state of culture as your condition
is in advance of the first stages of barbarism.

Men of earth erect temples to their God--their Deity--which to them are
imposing and grand; but compared to the magnificent structures that
rear their towers high into space from those glittering points that
attract your eye, they are poor and insignificant.

Yet, as being the highest expression of your intellectual unfolding, we
look upon them with admiration, even as you regard the rude attempts of
the Egyptians and the earlier races in their grotesquely formed images
and temples.

The inhabitants of some of the planets attain a life many times the
duration of man’s. One of the causes of this prolonged existence is
the great age and refinement of the planet. While it is undergoing
change, and preparing the vegetable for the animal, and the animal for
the mental creation, the conditions that ensue are insalubrious, and
conducive to disease and death. But when the perfection of the natural
world is attained--when it becomes, so to say, spiritualized, and its
grosser elements are absorbed--then the human being can live on its
surface arid develop his faculties from century to century.

The thoughtful reader will perceive from this statement that the
spirits who have inhabited these superior planets must have attained a
far greater perfection than those who have inhabited your earth, and
the spiritual existence, or heaven, to which such beings migrate, is in
advance of the heavens in which the dwellers of earth are born.

The spiritual heavens correspond to the firmament of the natural world,
and thus there are myriads of systems of spiritual worlds.

The residents of these planets visit earth as elder brothers who take
by the hand the little faltering infants. But intercourse with the
earth is more difficult for them than for your own native spirits, from
the fact that the magnetic atmosphere does not assimilate with them.
From the earth’s spirit world, scientific minds of rare development
only have been able to visit the spirit homes of those planetary
inhabitants.

What I have said can give but a faint idea of the population of the
unseen worlds. As a drop of water which is clear and unoccupied to the
eye, when viewed through the microscope is found to be peopled with
living creations, so the worlds that overspread the heavens are peopled
in every part that the eye can cover.

Man is indeed nothing; and yet he is the whole--a mere speck, a point,
and yet God himself in the aggregate.



DR. JOHN W. FRANCIS.

_THE INFLUENCE OF MIND UPON MATTER, AND THE CAUSES OF INSANITY AND THE
VARIOUS DISEASES WHICH AFFLICT HUMANITY AT THE PRESENT DAY_.


The rude nations of the earth believed that disease was the result of
evil spiritual agencies, and the untutored savage, without the aid of
books or any of the advantages which the learned physician possesses of
studying the human system, arrived at the conclusion that disease was
inflicted by living, unseen individualities.

Science has discarded that idea. It has dissected the human body,
and, finding the result of the diseases, has assumed to have found
the cause; assumed that it is mere bodily disarrangement. Yet any
intelligent physician will tell you that in his own experience he has
witnessed the effect of mind upon the body; that he can give a bread
pill to a patient, informing him that it is a purgative, and it will
act in that manner; that a certain powder will create nausea or a
burning sensation, and it will produce those results when the powder
itself is harmless.

As the body, if permitted to decay, comes to be infested with vermin,
so the spirit, if allowed to remain idle and inactive, will become
infested by spiritual vermin which will taint and destroy it; and the
savage idea that disease is caused by spiritual agency is correct.

If an individual permit any one idea to obtain predominance, and he
dwell upon that idea to the exclusion of other thoughts, he will
attract spirits who fill the air--not organized spiritual beings who
inhabit the spirit world, but half-organized beings (polypus) who live
in this atmosphere and were originated from the brains and the physical
organisms of the inhabitants of the earth; these beings, finding his
mind concentrated or magnetized to a point, will effect an entrance.
Suppose, for instance the person centres his mind upon the loss of a
friend or of money: this concentration becomes a magnet, which, like
the rays of sunlight acting upon a portion of vegetation, produces
decomposition upon which spirit vermin may feed. So by dwelling too
continuously upon one thought, certain faculties of the mind become
excited by constant action, while others become paralyzed and the
result is insanity.

Now spiritualists, or believers in spirit intercourse, should be
the most healthy persons in the community, for they understand, or
should understand, the laws of psychology which teach that constant
dwelling upon one thought will bring spirits of like character who
will intensify that thought, and they also know that they have but to
use their will and the whole magnetic relations will change and a new
influence will be brought to bear.

Tell a man he has heart disease, make him believe it, and his heart
will beat like a sledge-hammer. Tell him his liver is diseased, make
him believe it, and he will feel bilious and look bilious.

Tell a man he looks well, compliment him upon his appearance, and he
will feel well, look spruce, and his spirits will become elastic.

It has been a matter of surprise to some why the spirits have taken
such an interest in the science of medicine, and why they have
developed so many as healers. It is that they may teach man that
disease is generally a magnetic condition; and they hope to teach the
community, through those physicians whom they develop, to discard drugs
and rely upon magnetic influences and the power of the will to keep the
body in its normal condition of health.

Too much stress cannot be laid upon the power of the will in dispelling
disease, and in expelling it.

A diseased patient may be likened to a medium who is possessed by a
spiritual being of low order. The very low condition of the spirit
causes him to adhere and cling to the medium, and unless the will is
directed to exorcise him, he will keep his subject continually under
his influence and the proper individuality of the person will be
annihilated.

Thus, disease, like an evil spirit, takes its hold upon an individual,
and can only be overthrown from its position by a strong will, which
sends it shrinking away like a criminal from the body it has infested.

If the will of the patient is not sufficiently strong, then the will of
some good friend must be used. These good friends are known as healing
mediums. Also a change of air and scene should be obtained, which
brings the will into a new action, and thus dislodges the tenant.

The will is like a sharp two-edged sword, which cuts right and left,
and leaves no chance for skulking to anything to which it has directed
its power.

I will close my remarks by repeating that the savage is right in his
belief, and that disease is indeed the result of--I might call them
spiritual harpies, who, though they may not in these civilized times
be driven out by the beating of drums, the tom-tom, and the howling of
frenzied savages, yet can be dislodged by kindred manipulations, such
as mesmeric passes, deep breathing, and a positive though almost quiet
exercise of the will.

Some of my brethren of the profession will be surprised to find these
views advanced by one whom they believe held more rational opinions on
earth; but there are others whose keen intellects have pierced through
the wisdom of the schools, and have discovered that the physics they
have concocted, when applied to the complex mechanism of the human
system, in palliating the disorders of one function disarrange some
half a dozen others, and that the soul and the body are so interblended
that we must heal a disease of the body through and in conjunction with
the spirit, its counterpart.



ADELAIDE PROCTER.

_THE SPIRIT BRIDE_.


You told me you loved me, and vowed of old,
When you reached that land of jasper and gold,
To me you’d return in the hush of night,
And show me a glimpse of your land of light.

I sit in the shadows, and wearily wait
To see you throw open the starry gate:
Through my golden ringlets the chill winds blow,
While I watch your coming through falling snow.

How long must I wait? Are you ling’ring where
The blue-eyed angels your sweet kisses share?
Is your home so radiant that never more
Your steps will be heard at my lowly door?

Ah! what do I see through my blinding tears?--What
misty form through the tempest appears?
A cold hand now touches my burning brow,
A low voice whispers, “I am near thee now.”

Bend low--let me kiss thee, thou viewless thing;
No rising passion thy cold lips bring;
But hushed is the throb of my burning heart
As upward he bears me--no more to part.


THE END.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Strange Visitors
 - A series of original papers, embracing philosophy, science, government, religion, poetry, art, fiction, satire, humor, narrative, and prophecy, by the spirits of Irving, Willis, Thackeray, Brontë, Richter, Byron, Humboldt, Hawthorne, Wesley, Browning, and others now dwelling in the spirit world; dictated through a clairvoyant, while in an abnormal or trance state" ***

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