Chapter I: Want to Go Home, 364 (8)

Undoubtedly, he _was_ a vexation to an earth-born woman--that mild, dreamy, saintly man! The distance between them inevitably grew wider and wider; and the process was hastened by changes in the condition of Hermotimus. Though he had become more healthy in youth, than he was in infancy, there had never been a complete union between his soul and body. The inner and outer circles of his being, instead of clasping into each other, touched only at one point, and so remained nearly strangers. At the time of his marriage, he was believed to have outgrown the feebleness of his childhood, and to have lost the power of prophecy. But two years afterward, he fell asleep one day in the same grotto of Apollo to which his mother had been accustomed to carry offerings. He came out pale and chill, and was that night seized with a singular kind of fits, which continued to attack him more and more frequently. The old gossip was renewed. The neighbours said his father, the divine Apollo, had kissed him in his sleep, and he would never be like other men. Praxinoë nursed him carefully, for she had a kindly heart. But when the fits were on him, he inspired a degree of awe amounting almost to terror; for his looks and words impressed her with a strong conviction that he was some sort of a Spirit, and not a mortal man. At times, he told her the most secret thoughts of her heart, and repeated word for word what had been said to her, when he was out of hearing. He frequently described magnificent cities, gorgeous birds, and beautiful flowers, she had never seen or heard of. But what made her shudder more than all else, was the familiar intercourse he described with relatives and friends long since dead. If she were alone with him, during these strange visitations, he never answered when she spoke, or gave any indication that he was aware of her presence. But there was one person, to whose questions he always replied. In the neighbouring city of Clazomenæ lived a Pythagorean philosopher, named Prytanes. He heard rumours of the singular childhood of Hermotimus, and of the extraordinary fits that had come upon him in manhood; and he was desirous to ascertain how far these accounts had been exaggerated. When he made his first visit to him who was called The Sleeping Prophet, he found him lying upon a couch motionless and senseless. He took hold of his hand, and found it cold and rigid; but a change went over the countenance, like the light which drives shadows across the fields; and Hermotimus said, “I am glad you have come again; for, above all things, I have enjoyed our pleasant walks together in the groves, talking of the wings of the soul.” This seemed marvellous to Prytanes; for never, to his knowledge, had he spoken with Hermotimus. But when he asked questions concerning their conversations, the sleeper revealed to him many thoughts, which he remembered to have passed through his own mind, at various times, and which had seemed to him, at the moment, as if they did not originate in himself, but had come to him from some unknown source; thoughts which he in fact believed to have been imparted by supernal beings. When Prytanes returned to Clazomenæ, he gave an account of this wonderful experience, in public discourses to his disciples; and the fame of Hermotimus spread more and more widely. Priests and philosophers came to listen to his conversations with Prytanes; and while some went away incredulous, others were deeply impressed with awe. From far and near, people brought the diseased to him, begging him to prescribe a cure; and the rumour went round that sometimes, when he merely passed his hands over them, their pains departed. In these days, he would have been called a clairvoyant; but what we style animal-magnetism had then never been mentioned; though its phenomena were occasionally manifested, as they always have been, wherever the spiritual and physical circle of man’s compound existence is partially disjoined. Scientific causes were then little investigated. Health, beauty, eloquence, poetry, and all other things, were supposed to be direct and special gifts from some god. No wonder then that many believed Hermotimus to be really the son of Apollo, receiving the gift of healing and of prophecy from immediate and continual intercourse with his divine father.

If the wise and thoughtful were puzzled, it may well be supposed that the busy little Praxinoë often felt as if she were walking among shadows in a fog. Her ambition was in some degree gratified by her husband’s fame, and by the distinguished persons who came to visit him. But, in confidential conversation with her gossips, she complained that these numerous visitors interrupted her avocations, beside bringing a great deal of dust into the house, and asking for a draught of her fresh wine rather oftener than was convenient. “I admire hospitality,” she would say; “and I wish I were rich enough to feast all Ionia, every week, and send each guest away with a golden bracelet. But the fact is, these dreams of Hermotimus, though they are full of palaces and fountains, do not help in the least to build such things; and he brings home no wine from the beautiful vineyards he describes. Then I can’t help thinking, sometimes, that it would be pleasant to know for a certainty whether one’s husband were really dead, or alive.”

One thing became daily more obvious to her and to all who saw him. The continual questions he was called upon to answer, and the distant places of the earth he was required to visit, exhausted the little bodily strength he possessed. The priests at the neighbouring temple of Æsculapius said he needed more quiet, and ought to drink a strong decoction of vervain, gathered when the moonlight rested on it. He himself, when questioned, during his miraculous slumbers, declared that the air of the valleys was not good for him. Therefore his friends removed him to a residence among the hills. Praxinoë made no objection; for though her spiritualized mate failed to call forth all the warmth of her loving nature, she had a friendly feeling for him, and would gladly have done any thing for the recovery of his health. But the change was by no means agreeable to her lively disposition. She liked to live where she could see festive processions passing with garlands, and gaily dressed youths and maidens dancing to the sound of cymbals and flutes.

News from the city became more rare; for Hermotimus recovered his health, and with it lost what was called his gift of prophecy; consequently, visitors came less and less frequently. Urged by Praxinoë, the diseased one sometimes tried to render himself practically useful. But his heart was in such occupations even less than it had formerly been. Companionship with philosophers had excited his intellect, and induced the habit of watching his own soul with intense interest. He was absorbed in reverie most of the time, and Prytane, who came occasionally to see him, was the only person with whom he conversed freely. Their conversation was more wearisome to Praxinoë than his dreamy silence. She said they might be as wise as owls, for all she knew to the contrary, but that _she_ could see no more sense in their talk, than she did in the hooting of those solemn birds of darkness. In another respect, Hermotimus seemed to her like an owl. His eyes became so nervously sensitive to light, that he winked continually in the sunshine, and was prone to seek the shelter of grottoes and shady groves. His childish habit of vivid dreams returned; and the explanation of these dreams occupied his thoughts continually. One morning, he told Praxinoë he had dreamed that she held in her hand a crystal globe, that reflected all things in the universe; that she threw it into the flames, where it cracked asunder, and there rose from it a radiant Spirit, with large white wings. She laughed, and said if she had such a globe, she would not break it till she had taken a peep at Corinth, to see the embroidered silks and golden girdles that the women wore there. He was thinking of the winged Spirit, and her remark passed through his ears without reaching his mind. Had he listened to the observation, it would have seemed to him very much like looking through the universe to watch a butterfly. Nothing was interesting to him but the process of attaining wings to his soul. He thought of this, till the body seemed an encumbrance, and its necessities a sin. He ate sparingly at all times, and fasted often. When he spoke at all, his talk was ever of mortifying the senses, that the soul might be enabled to rise to the ethereal spheres from which it had fallen into this world. Praxinoë was impatient with such discourse. “To think of _his_ talking of mortifying the senses!” exclaimed she; “when he never _had_ any senses to mortify. Why, never since I knew him has he eaten enough to keep a nightingale alive. For my part, I think it is a blessing to have plenty of good food, and an excellent appetite for it.”

In her present situation, she was not sustained through her trials, as she had been near Clazomenæ, by the reverence which her husband inspired. Their dwelling was isolated, and in the nearest village were many scoffers and skeptics. She had formed an intimacy with a wealthy dame, named Eucoline; and from her she learned that people said Hermotimus neglected to provide for his family, because he was too indolent to work; that he injured his health by frequent fasts, and made himself crazy with thinking, merely for the sake of being stared at by the common people; and as for his pretended visions and prophecies, they were undoubtedly impositions. Praxinoë, who habitually looked outward for her standard of thought and action, was much influenced by these remarks. She had sometimes wept in secret over her cheerless destiny; but discontent had been restrained by a reverent sense of being connected with some solemn mystery, which others respected. Now, she began to doubt whether the eccentricities she daily witnessed might not be assumed, from the motives imputed by their neighbours. This tendency was increased by the influence of Eratus, the gay, luxurious husband of Eucoline. He professed to be a disciple of Epicurus, but he was one of those who had perverted the original doctrines of that teacher; for while he thought happiness was the only good, he believed there was no enjoyment higher than that of the senses. To his volatile mind all things in life afforded subjects for jest and laughter. If he met Praxinoë, on her way to his wife’s apartments, he would say, “How is the good Hermotimus, to-day? Has he gone to talk with the gods, and thrown his body on the couch till he returns?” These sneers were not pleasant; and the habit of comparing her situation with that of Eucoline increased her discontent. The handsome and healthy Eratus was growing richer every day by his own energy and enterprise. “Such robes as he buys for _his_ wife!” said she to herself, “I can make better wine than she can; I can weave handsomer cloth; and I think the gods have endowed me with more beauty; but I can never hope to wear such robes. Ah, if my good Hermotimus were only more alive!”

This involuntary comparison did no great harm, until her friend Eucoline chanced to die suddenly. Then the idea came into her head, “If I could marry Eratus, what a noble span we should make! We might ride in our own chariot, inlaid with ivory and gold. Perhaps it _may_ happen some day, Who knows? Didn’t the Greeks get into Troy?” She tried to drive away the pleasing vision, but it _would_ intrude itself; and worse still, the handsome Eratus often came in person to bring choice grapes and figs, in the prettiest of all imaginable vases and baskets. He was always friendly with Hermotimus; and if his body had wandered away, carried by the soul, which was so generally absent from this material world, the Epicurean would inquire, in this jocular way, “Where is the good Hermotimus, pretty one? Has he gone off to converse with the gods? If Venus had given _me_ such a beautiful companion at home, all Olympus wouldn’t tempt me away from her.” The gay, graceful, flattering man! He was a dangerous contrast to her pale silent husband, hiding himself in groves and grottoes, thinking only of obtaining wings for his soul. Eratus was conscious of his power, and betrayed it by expressive glances from his large dark eyes. Sparks fell from them into the heart of the neglected wife, and kindled a fire there which glowed through her cheeks. Her eyelids drooped under his ardent gaze, and she avoided looking at him when he spoke; but she could not shut out the melting tenderness of his tones. It was a hard trial to poor Praxinoë. Her nature had such tropical exuberance! She was born with such love of splendour, such capacity for joy! and the cruel Fates had cast her destiny in such cold and shady places! Her pride had sometimes been an evil companion, but it now proved a friend in need. If she could not be the wife of Eratus, she resolved not to give Cupid any more opportunities to shoot arrows from his eyes, or play amorous tunes with his musical voice. When she saw the flatterer approaching, she retreated hastily and left an old servant to receive him, and thank him for the grapes he had brought for Hermotimus. Eratus smiled at the veil she thus endeavoured to throw over his attentions; and to deprive her of the subterfuge, he sent her a golden bracelet and ear-rings, for which she could not thank him in the name of her husband. She returned the costly gift, though affection, vanity, and love of elegance strongly tempted her to retain it. She was a brave woman. The prudes in the neighbourhood, who were accustomed to shake their heads and say she laughed and talked more than was consistent with decorum, never knew half how brave she was.

This prudent reserve of course rendered her more interesting to the enamored widower. The more he thought of her, the more he was vexed that such a vivacious creature, with mantling complexion, laughing eyes, and springing step, should be appropriated by a pale devotee, who took no notice of her charms, and who in fact despised even the most beautiful body, regarding it merely as a prison for the soul. At last, he plainly expressed a wish to marry her; and he proposed to ask Hermotimus to divorce her for that purpose, which the laws of the country enabled him to do. Praxinoë, with bashful frankness, confessed her willingness, and said she did not think Hermotimus would observe whether she were present or absent. “If he understands my proposition,” replied Eratus, laughing, “he will give me a grave lecture, and tell me how the wings of his soul are growing, by with drawing from all the pleasures of this world. Let them grow!”

The sudden and alarming illness of Hermotimus arrested the progress of affairs; for the kindness of Praxinoë overcame all other feelings, and she said she would not leave him to the care of hirelings. He recovered slowly, and again wandered forth into the groves, with feeble steps. Eratus watched him impatiently; and when at last he seemed sufficiently recovered to enter into conversation, he sought an interview. He found him lying on the ground, in one of his favourite groves, cold and rigid as a corpse. He called servants to convey him to the house. Praxinoë manifested no surprise. She said she had not seen him in such a state for two years, but that in former times he would often lie senseless for a long time, and then wake up to tell of wonderful countries he had visited. Day passed after day, and he did not wake. The disciples of skeptical philosophers came and looked at him, and went away laughing with each other about the stories they had heard of his former visions, prophecies, and miraculous cures. They concluded their remarks by saying, “It can do no harm to burn his body, whether he is dead or not. The soul he had so much faith in was always longing to get out of prison. It would be conferring a favour upon him to give him a chance to try his wings.”

The parents of Hermotimus were dead. Eratus summoned priests of Æsculapius, who decidedly pronounced his slumber the sleep of death; and the relatives of Praxinoë sympathized with his impatience for the funeral. But she continued to doubt, and insisted upon first sending for the Pythagorean philosopher, whom Hermotimus had always answered, when he was in those strange trances. The messenger returned with tidings that he had gone to Athens. The funeral-pile was erected, and the good-hearted widow wept to find that the certainty of his death was such a relief to her mind. This consciousness was the more unpleasant to her, because she said to herself, “If he _is_ in one of those trances, he knows all I am thinking.” When they lifted him from the couch where he had lain so still, she shuddered violently, and exclaimed, “Surely he is not quite so pale as he was!” But they reasoned with her, and said, “He looks just as he has for the last three days.” She saw his body placed on the funeral-pile, and when the flames began to curl round it, she listened to hear if there were any audible signs of life. But all was still, save the crackling of the wood; and in a short time, a heap of ashes was all that remained.

That night, she dreamed that she held a crystal globe in her hands, and threw it from her into the flames. The globe cracked, and a radiant Spirit, with white wings, rose from it and soared high into the air. He smiled as he passed her, and said, “I foretold this.” The countenance looked as that of Hermotimus had sometimes looked in his trances, when he told his friend Prytanes that he was listening to white-robed maidens, who played on golden harps; but though similar in expression, it was far more glorious. Did memory cause that dream? Or was it imparted from some other source, beyond herself? She woke trembling and afraid, and with a strong impression that she had seen Hermotimus. This belief excited uneasy thoughts, which she dared not mention, for fear of slanderous tongues. But she secretly confessed to Eratus that she feared her husband was not dead when they burned his body. He replied, “It is foolish to trouble yourself about a dream, my lovely one. It is enough that all who saw him thought he was dead. You know it often puzzled wiser folks than you or I to tell whether he was alive or not. Whatever phantom it was that sailed through the ivory gate of dreams, he smiled and seemed happy. Then why be disturbed about it? Life was given for enjoyment, dearest.” He laughed and began to sing, “I’ll crown my love with myrtle;” and his looks and tones drove all phantoms from her thoughts.

She soon became his wife, and her ambitious hopes were more than realized. Eratus placed a high value on worldly possessions, and knew very well how to obtain them. She never had occasion to remind _him_ that the Greeks entered Troy.

But where there is sunshine, there is always shadow. Her prosperity excited envy; which some manifested by saying, “If every body could burn a poor husband for the sake of marrying a rich one, other folks could wear silk mantles, too.” Remarks of that kind reached the ears of many who were firm believers in the inspiration of The Sleeping Prophet. They made anxious inquiries concerning the manner of his death; to which certain envious women answered: “Praxinoë was always a very good neighbour. _We_ have nothing to say against her; though _some_ people thought she was rather free, and not a little vain. The old nurse says Eratus was always sending her presents, long before her husband died; and _some_ people do think it was very obliging in poor Hermotimus to die, just when he was so much wanted out of the way.” These whisperings soon grew into a report that the rich Epicurean had bribed the priests of Æsculapius to pronounce the slumberer a dead man. Of course, some persons were good-natured enough to repeat these rumours to the parties implicated. Finding their solemn assertions of innocence received with significant silence, or annoying innuendoes, they resolved to remove from the neighbourhood. Praxinoë had always greatly desired to see Corinth; and to please her, Eratus chose it for their future residence. In that gay luxurious city, her love of splendour was abundantly gratified with pompous processions and showy equipage. Her beauty attracted attention whenever she was seen in public, and her husband took pride in adorning her with rich embroidery and costly jewels. In such an atmosphere, the wings of her soul had small chance to grow; but that subject never occupied her thoughts.

It was generally believed in Clazomenæ and its vicinity that Hermotimus was not dead when his emaciated body was consumed on the funeral-pile. This idea occasioned a good deal of excitement among those who had been cured of diseases by his directions, or startled to hear their inmost thoughts revealed. His frequent conversations with spirits of the departed had strongly impressed them with the belief that some god spoke through him, while his senses were wrapped in profound slumber; and no skeptical witticisms or arguments could diminish their faith in the prophet. They erected a temple to his memory, where they placed his ashes in a golden urn; and because his wife had consented that his body should be burned, while his soul was absent on one of its customary visits to the gods, they never allowed any woman to enter within the consecrated precincts.

SPIRIT AND MATTER.

A REVERIE.

Not in another world, as poets prate,
Dwell we apart, above the tide of things,
High floating o’er earth’s clouds on fairy wings;
But our pure love doth ever elevate
Into a holy bond of brotherhood,
All earthly things, making them pure and good.
J. R. LOWELL.

One of the most wonderful things connected with the mysterious soul-power, with which we limited mortals are endowed, is the capacity to rise into the infinite from the smallest earth-particle of the finite. How often some circumstance, trifling as the motions of a butterfly, plunges us into a profound reverie! How often, from the smallest and lowliest germ, are thoughts evolved, which go revolving round in ascending circles, forming a spiral ladder, ascending from earth to heaven!

A pair of white-breasted swallows that built a nest in a little bird-box near my chamber-window, sent my soul floating dreamily upward, till it lost its way in wide ethereal regions. The mother-bird was a lively little thing, making a deal of musical twittering at her work, and often coquetting gracefully with her mate. I took an affectionate interest in her proceedings, though I had private suspicions that she was something of a female gossip, in her small way; for I observed that she watched the motions of other birds with inquisitive curiosity, and often stood at her front-door, prattling with them as they passed by. But they seemed to take it all in good part, and it was no concern of mine. I loved the pretty little creature, gossip or no gossip; and, for many days, my first waking thought was to jump up and take a peep at her. Though I rose before the sun, I always found her awake and active, chattering with her mate, or carrying straws and feathers into her dwelling, to make a bed for their little ones. I should have been half ashamed to have had any very wise person overhear the things I said to her. She had such “peert,” knowing ways, that I could not remember her inability to understand human speech. It always seemed to me that she _must_ be aware of my sympathy, and that she rejoiced in it.

One bright morning, when I looked out to salute her as usual, I was filled with dismay to see a grisly cat seated on the bird-box, peeping into the door with eager eyes. She had descended from the roof, and was watching for a chance to devour the inmates of that happy little dwelling. I always had an antipathy to the stealthy and cruel habits of the feline race; but I think I never detested any creature as I did that cat; for a few minutes. The wish to do her harm, was, however, easily conquered by the reflection that she was obeying a natural instinct, as the bird was in catching insects; but I resolved that neither my dear little Lady Swallow nor her babes should furnish a repast for her voracious jaws. So I climbed a ladder, and took down the box, which contained a nest, with two pretty little white eggs. I was distressed with the idea that the hateful cat might have destroyed my favourites before I perceived their danger; but my anxiety was soon relieved by their approach. They circled round and round the well-known spot, peered about in every direction, perched on the platform where their home had stood, and chattered together with unusual volubility. Again and again they returned, bringing other birds with them, and repeating the same motions. They were evidently as much astonished, as we should be to wake up in the morning and find that an earthquake had swallowed a neighbour’s house during the night. Whether there were scientific swallows among them, that tried to frame satisfactory theories in explanation of the phenomenon, or whether any feathered clericals taught them to submit to the event as a special providence, we can never know. The natural presumption is, that they will always wonder, to the end of their days, what mysterious agency it could have been that so suddenly removed their nest, house and all. As for conjecturing _why_ it was done, the mere query was probably beyond the range of their mental powers.

I was watching them all the time, but their bird eyes could not see me, and their bird-nerves conveyed no magnetic intimation of my close vicinity. Their surprise and their trouble were partially revealed to me by their motions and their utterance; but, though they were intelligent swallows, they could form no idea of such a fact. I had removed their dwelling to save their lives; but between their plane of existence and my own there was such an impassable chasm, that no explanation of my kindness and foresight could possibly be conveyed to them.

I thought of all this, and longed in vain to enlighten their ignorance, and relieve their perplexity. The earnestness of my wish, and the impossibility of accomplishing it, suggested a train of thought. I said to myself, perhaps some invisible beings are now observing _me_, as I am observing these swallows; but I cannot perceive them, because the laws of their existence are too far removed from my own. Perhaps they take a friendly interest in my affairs, and would gladly communicate with me, if I were so constituted that I could understand their ideas, or their mode of utterance. These cogitations recalled to my mind some remarks by the old English writer, Soame Jenyns. In his “Disquisition on the Chain of Universal Being,” he says: “The superiority of man to that of other terrestrial animals is as inconsiderable, in proportion to the immense plan of universal existence, as the difference of climate between the north and south end of the paper I now write upon, with regard to the heat and distance of the sun. There is nothing leads us into so many errors concerning the works and designs of Providence, as the foolish vanity that can persuade such insignificant creatures that all things were made for their service; from whence they ridiculously set up utility to _themselves_ as the standard of good, and conclude every thing to be evil, which appears injurious to them or their purposes. As well might a nest of ants imagine this globe of earth created only for them to cast up into hillocks, and clothed with grain and herbage for their sustenance; then accuse their Creator for permitting spades to destroy them, and ploughs to lay waste their habitations. They feel the inconveniences, but are utterly unable to comprehend their uses, as well as the relations they themselves bear to superior beings.

“When philosophers have seen that the happiness of inferior creatures is dependent on our wills, it is surprising none of them should have concluded that the good order and well-being of the universe might require that our happiness should be as dependent on the wills of superior beings, who are accountable, like ourselves, to one common Lord and Father of all things. This is the more wonderful, because the existence and influence of such beings has been an article in the creed of all religions that have ever appeared in the world. In the beautiful system of the Pagan theology, their sylvan and household deities, their nymphs, satyrs, and fawns, were of this kind. All the barbarous nations that have ever been discovered, have been found to believe in, and adore, intermediate spiritual beings, both good and evil. The Jewish religion not only confirms the belief of their existence, but of their tempting, deceiving, and tormenting mankind; and the whole system of Christianity is erected entirely on this foundation.”

Dr. Johnson wrote a satirical review of Soame Jenyns, which had great popularity at the time. He passes without notice the fact that men of all ages, and of all religions, have believed that malicious Spirits cause diseases, and tempt men, in many ways, to their destruction; while benevolent Spirits cure physical and mental evils, forewarn men in dreams, and assist them in various emergencies. There was, therefore, nothing very new or peculiar in the suggestion of Mr. Jenyns; but Dr. Johnson, in his rough way, caricatures it thus: “He imagines that as we have animals not only for food, but some for our diversion, the same privilege may be allowed to beings above us, who may deceive, torment, or destroy us, for the ends only of their own pleasure or utility. He might have carried the analogy further, much to the advantage of his argument. He might have shown that these hunters, whose game is man, have many sports analogous to our own. As we drown whelps and kittens, they amuse themselves now and then with sinking a ship; and they stand round the fields of Blenheim, or the walls of Prague, as we encircle a cock-pit. As we shoot a bird flying, they knock a man down with apoplexy, in the midst of his business or pleasure. Perhaps some of them are virtuosi, and delight in the operations of an asthma, as human philosophers do in the effects of an air-pump. Many a merry bout have these frolic beings at the vicissitudes of an ague; and good sport it is to see a man tumble with an epilepsy, and revive and tumble again; and all this he knows not why. Perhaps now and then a merry being may place himself in such a situation as to enjoy at once all the varieties of an epidemic disease, or amuse his leisure with the tossings and contortions of every possible pain exhibited together.”

It occurred to me what bearish paws the old Doctor, in his gruff sport, would lay upon modern Spiritualists, if he were about in these days. I smiled to think what an inexhaustible theme for skeptical wit was afforded by the awkward and tedious process of communication employed. But after a little reflection, I said to myself, is not the common action of Spirit upon Matter, while we are here in the body, quite as inexplicable? If we were not accustomed to it, would it not seem nearly as inconvenient and laborious? The Spirit which dwells within me, (I know not where, or how,) wishes to communicate with a Spirit dwelling in some other body, in another part of the world. Straightway, the five-pronged instrument, which we call a hand, is moved by Spirit, and promptly obeys the impulse. It dips a piece of pointed steel into a black fluid, and traces hieroglyphic characters invented by Spirit to express its thought. Those letters have been formed into words by slow elaboration of the ages. They partake of the climate where they grew. In Italy, they flow smoothly as water. In Russia, they clink and clatter like iron hoofs upon a pavement. It appears that Spirit must needs fashion its utterance according to the environment of Matter, in the midst of which it is placed. By a slow and toilsome process, the child must learn what ideas those words represent; otherwise he can scarcely be able to communicate at all with the Spirits in other bodies near him. If they are distant, and his Spirit wills to converse with them, it must impel the five-pronged instrument of bone and sinew to take up the pointed steel, and trace, on a substance elaborately prepared from vegetable fibres, certain mystic characters, which, according to their arrangement, express love or hatred, joy or sorrow. If Spirits _out_ of the body do indeed tip tables and rap the alphabet, to communicate with Spirits _in_ the body, it must be confessed that the machinery we poor mortals are obliged to employ, in order to communicate with each other, is nearly as tedious and imperfect as theirs.

Ancient oriental philosophers, and some of the Gnostics at a later period, believed in a gradation of successive worlds, gradually diminishing in the force of spiritual intelligence, and consequently in outward beauty. They supposed that each world was an attenuated likeness, a sort of reflected image of the world above it; that it must necessarily be so, because, in all its parts, it was evolved from that world. They believed that the inhabitants of each world knew of those in the world next below them, and were attracted toward them; but that the world below was unconscious of the higher sphere whence it emanated.

Swedenborg teaches that all the inferior grades of being in _this_ world are representative forms of the spiritual state of mankind, and owe their existence to the thoughts and feelings in human souls. Thus if men had no bad passions, there would be no lions and tigers; and if they were inwardly pure, there would be no vermin. In other words, he teaches that the lower forms of Nature are reflected images of man, as the orientals taught concerning successive worlds; and in this case also the higher is attracted toward the lower, and wishes to communicate with it, while the lower remains ignorant of the existence of the higher. I knew something of the swallows, and wanted to talk with them, but they knew nothing of me.

Swedenborg teaches successive spheres of existence, as did the orientals, though in another form. He says Spirits in the sphere nearest to this earth are attracted towards us, and wish to communicate with us; but that some of them are in a low state, and capable of great duplicity. Many people are satisfied with the theory that these are the Spirits who are believed to be rapping and tipping tables in all parts of the country. Certain it is, many of the phenomena that actually occur cannot possibly be the result of jugglery; though miracles sometimes seem to be performed by that adroit agency. Candid minds cannot, I think, avoid the conclusion that Spirit is acting upon Matter in _some_ way not explainable by any known laws of our being. Whether it is Spirit _in_ the body, or _out_ of the body, seems difficult to decide. The agents, whoever they are, are obviously nearly on a level with our own spiritual condition; for they tell nothing which had not been previously known or imagined; and they do not always tell the truth.

Minds of mystical tendencies find joy in believing that all inspirations in religion, science, or art, come to us from above, through the medium of ministering Spirits, who dwell in higher spheres of intelligence and love, and are attracted towards us by our inward state. The fast-increasing strength of evil, which often leads men to think the Devil drives them into some crime, they account for by supposing that the indulgence of wrong thoughts and feelings brings us into affinity with Spirits below us, who are thus enabled to influence our souls by the operation of laws as universal and unchangeable as those which regulate the attraction and repulsion of material substances.

Rationalists, on the other hand, deem that all mental influences, whether good or evil, may be sufficiently accounted for by the activity of the soul in any particular direction; that the indulgence of any class of thoughts and feelings renders them continually stronger and stronger, as the pedestrian’s leg, or the wood-cutter’s arm is invigorated by frequent use.

All these thoughts grew out of the removal of a swallow’s nest. They left me where they found me. Temperament, and early habits of thought, inclined me toward mystical theories; while increasing caution, learned by the experience of many fallacies, beckoned toward the less poetical side of austere rationality. I remained balanced between the opposite forces, candidly willing to admit the claims of either. I could only bow my head in reverent humility, and say, “On these subjects we cannot certainly _know_ any thing, in this imperfect state of being. Verily, mysterious is the action of Spirit upon Spirit, and of Spirit upon Matter.” As I thus dismissed the subject from my mind, a voice from some corner of my soul said, “The swallows did not _know_ that you took away their nest, but you _did_.”

THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS.

And unto thee, in Freedom’s hour
Of sorest need, God gives the power
To ruin or to save,
To wound or heal, to blight or bless,
With fruitful soil, or wilderness,
A free home, or a grave.
J. G. WHITTIER.

“You are silent to-night, William,” said Alice May to her lover, as they walked through a green lane, toward the setting sun.

“Yes, dearest,” he replied, “I have that on my mind which makes me thoughtful.” After a pause, he added, “That book I was reading to you, before these golden-edged clouds tempted us out into the fields, has made a very strong impression on me. I never before realized how much depends on the state of mind we are in when we read. The story of our forefathers was all familiar to me; and I always reverenced the Puritans; but the grandeur of their character never loomed up before my mental vision as it does now. With all their faults, they were a noble set of men and women.”

“And what has anointed your eyes to see this more clearly than ever to-night?” asked Alice.

“All the while I was reading, I was thinking of John Bradford’s project of going to Kansas; and, while we have been walking in the fields, my eyes have involuntarily turned away from the glorious sunset clouds, to glance at the neat dwellings dotted all over the landscape; to the mill whirling sparkling water-drops into the air; to the school-house, with its broad play-ground; to the church-spire, gleaming brightly in the sun. All these we owe to those heroic pilgrims, who left comfortable homes in England and came to a howling wilderness to establish a principle of freedom; and what they have done for Massachusetts, John Bradford and his companions may do for Kansas. It is a glorious privilege to help in laying the foundation of states on a basis of justice and freedom.”

“I see that John has magnetized you with his enthusiasm,” she replied; “and he has magnetized cousin Kate also. How brave she is, to think of following him, with their little child!”

“Kate is hopeful by temperament,” said William; “but I think she is hardly more brave than you are. You are both afraid of a snake and a gun.”

“I was thinking more of the long journey, the parting from friends, and living among strangers, than I was of snakes and guns,” replied Alice. “Then everybody says there are so many discomforts and hardships in a new country. And the Indians, William! Only think of going within sound of the Indian war-whoop!”

“The Indians are in a very different state now,” he replied, “from what they were when the Puritan women followed their husbands into the wilderness of this new world. They are few in numbers now. Their spirit has been tamed by accumulated wrongs, and they are too well aware of the power of the United States’ government, to make any aggressions upon those who are under its protection. Besides, you know it is my opinion that the Indians never would have made unprovoked aggressions. Who can read Catlin’s account, without being struck with the nobility of character often manifested by their much-injured race? I am fully persuaded that it is easy to make firm friends of the Indians, by treating them with justice and kindness, and with that personal respect, which they so well know how to appreciate.” He pressed her arm to his side, and took her hand within his, as he added, “You seemed greatly to admire that young Puritan bride, who cheerfully left home and friends behind her, and crossed the tempestuous ocean, to brave cold and hunger by her husband’s side, in a wilderness where wolves and savages were howling.”

Her hand trembled within his; for something in the earnestness of his look, and the tender modulation of his tones, suddenly revealed to her what was passing in his mind. She knew he was not thinking of cousin John’s wife, while he spoke thus of the pilgrim’s bride. It was the first time that such a possibility had been suggested to her mind; and it made the blood run cold in her veins. After a painful pause, she said, with a forced calmness of voice, “We often admire virtues we are not strong enough to imitate.”

He pressed her hand, and remained silent, till an outburst of tears made him stop suddenly, and fold her to his heart. “Don’t weep, my beloved,” he said, “I will never require, or even ask, such a sacrifice of you. Such a delicate flower as you are needs to be sheltered from the blast and the storm. But you have conjectured rightly, dearest, that my heart is set upon accompanying these emigrants. I feel that all there is of manhood within me, will be developed by the exigencies of such a career. My character and my destiny will grow more grand with the responsibilities that will devolve upon me. If I remain here, I never shall do half I am capable of doing for myself and for posterity. To speak the plain truth, dear Alice, I have something of the old Puritan feeling, that God calls me to this work. You have promised to be my wife within a few weeks; but I absolve you from that promise. If you prefer it, I will go and prepare a comfortable home for you in that new region, and endeavour to draw a circle of our mutual friends around me, before I ask you to leave your New England home.”

She looked up at him, through her tears, with a half-reproachful glance, which seemed to say, “Do you then suppose there can be any hardship so great, as separation from the one I love best in the world?”

He understood the mute appeal, and answered it by saying, “Don’t be rash, clear Alice. Reflect upon it till next Sunday evening, and then tell me what is your decision. I shall not love you one particle the less if you tell me that years must pass before you can be the partner of my life. No duties, no excitements, no lapse of time, can remove your image from my heart.”

Few more words were spoken, as they returned homeward, lighted by the crescent moon. It was not until long after midnight that Alice fell asleep, to dream of standing by a wide chasm, vainly stretching her hand toward William, on the other side.

During the following days, she asked no counsel, save of God and her mother. Her mother laid her hand tenderly on her head, and said, “I dare not advise you. Follow your own heart, my child;” and when she prayed to God, she seemed to hear an echo of those words. She saw William often, but she spoke no word to dissuade him from his purpose. Had he been going to California to dig gold, she would have had much to say in favour of the humblest home under the protection of the old order-loving Commonwealth; but he had spoken so seriously of his sense of duty, that her womanly nature reverenced the manliness of his convictions; and she prayed that _his_ courage to dare might be equalled by _her_ fortitude to endure. It rained heavily on Sunday evening, so that the lovers could not take their accustomed walk; and the presence of others prevented a confidential interview. But when they parted at the door, Alice slipped a small package into William’s hand. When he arrived at home, he opened it with nervous haste, and found a small Bible, with a mark within it. An anchor was embroidered on the mark, with the word FAITH beneath it; and his eye was caught by pencil lines on the page, encircling the words: “Where thou goest, I will go; where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” “God bless her!” he exclaimed. “Now I can go forward with an undivided heart.” He kissed the anchor again and again, and, bowing his head on his hands, he wept as he had not wept since boyhood. To his deep and earnest nature, love and duty were sacred realities.

Great was the joy of cousin Kate and her husband, when it was known that William Bruce had determined to join the band of emigrants, and that Alice had acquiesced. William was a young man of such good judgment and stedfast principles, that they all felt he would be a balance-wheel in the machinery of any society where he moved. John Bradford was equally good and true, but his temperament induced more volubility of speech, and more eagerness of action. When the band of emigrants heard of William’s decision, they said laughingly to each other, “Now we shall have both Moses and Aaron to guide us into Canaan.” Kate’s widowed mother, and a younger brother and sister, resolved to join the enterprising band. A little nephew of five years old was of the same mind; and when told that he was too small to be of any use, he declared himself fully able to catch a bear. Alice’s father and mother had prospective plans of following their daughter, accompanied by their oldest son, in case those who went before them should send up a good report of the land. Her adhesive affections suffered terribly in this rupture of old ties. But in such natures love takes possession of the whole being. She would have sacrificed life itself for William. All her friends knew it was harder for her than for others, to go into a strange land and enter into entirely new modes of existence. Therefore, they all spoke hopefully to her, and no one but William ever presented the clouded side of the picture to her view. He did it from a conscientious scruple, lest she should go forward in the enterprise with eyes blinded to its difficulties. But the hardships he described in such tender tones, never _seemed_ like hardships. His warnings were always met with the affectionate response, “What a proud and happy woman I shall be, dear William, if I can do any thing to sustain you through the trials you will have to encounter.” She never spoke despondingly, never told the fears that sometimes swarmed in her imagination. If she could not strengthen him, she at least would not unnerve him, she said to herself; and as for cousin Kate, she would have been ashamed to acknowledge to _her_ what a faint heart was beating within her bosom. Kate, who had earned her own living ever since she was sixteen, and assisted her widowed mother, and educated her younger brother and sister, in a manner well adapted to make them useful and active members of society, was just the woman to emigrate to the West. Sometimes Alice sighed, and wished she was more like Kate. She did not know how many anxious thoughts were concealed under her cousin’s cheerful tones, her bright frank smile, and her energetic preparations for departure.

Thick and fast came in the parting memorials from relatives and schoolmates; and what showers of tears fell upon them as they were stowed away in the closely packed chests! That last night at the old homesteads, oh, how the memories crowded upon those suffocated hearts! When Alice stole out in the moonlight, and wept, while she kissed the old elm, from whose boughs she had swung in childhood, she did not know that the roots were already moistened with Katie’s tears.

To the experienced and the thoughtful, all weddings are solemn occasions; for when they see the young unmooring their boat from its old fastenings, and floating away so gaily on the sun-rippled stream, they know full well that shadows are ahead, and that many a rock lies hidden under the bright waters. The marriage of William and Alice was solemn even to sadness; for they were to depart for Kansas on the morrow. The farewell moment had been so dreaded for days preceding, that all felt as if it would be a relief to have the agony over. Alice clung to her parents as the drowning cling. The mother lifted up her voice and wept, and the old father choked, as he strove to say, “Very pleasant hast thou been unto me. God bless thee, my child.” But cousin Katie, whose mission it was to strengthen everybody, came up and pressed their hands, and said “Good bye, dear uncle; good bye, dear aunt. We’ll make a beautiful home for you in Kansas; and Willie and Ally will come to bring you to us.”

As they mounted the wagons, children, who used to attend Mrs. Bradford’s school, came up with bunches of violets; and the little nephew, who thought himself such a mighty hunter, called out, “send me a bear!”

“Oh yes, Georgy,” replied Kate. “Will you have him roasted?”

“I want to tie him up in the _darden_, and feed him,” shouted George. But no one heard him. The wagons had rolled away before he finished the sentence; and those who watched them forgot that any thing else existed.

The last glimpse of Alice showed her head bowed down on her husband’s shoulder, her waist encircled by his arm. The last tones of Katie’s voice had been strong and clear; and no one but her kind-hearted John saw how the tears rained down on her infant’s face, as they rode through their native village. They had never fully realized, until now, how beautiful were the elms in the delicate verdure of spring; how precious were the golden blossoms profusely strewn over the meadows; how happy and safe the homes seemed to nestle in the scenery. As they passed the church, all turned and looked back at that place of pleasant meetings with relatives, friends and neighbours.

“They will miss our voices in the choir, dear William,” said Alice.

“Yes,” he replied; “but, by the blessing of God, we will sing hymns in the wilderness, and waken musical echoes among the silent hills.”

“And we will sing ‘Home Sweet Home’ together,” said Alice, with a faint smile.

“We’ll all join in the tune,” said Katie; “and John, who is ‘up to all sort o’ fixens’, as the Westerners say, will make some new variations, on purpose for the occasion.”

Then came the bustle of depôts, the whizzing of steam, and visions of fields and hills racing away. As usual, the hearts that went recovered serenity sooner than the hearts left behind. The new excitement of travelling waked up hope, who shoved memory aside for awhile, and produced from her portfolio a series of sketches, painted in colours more prismatic than Rossiter’s. They talked of the genial climate, and beautiful scenery of Kansas, and foretold that it would be the Italy of the western world.

“I hope it will be like Italy only in its externals,” said Kate. “I trust there will be no lazaroni, no monks, no banditti, no despots to imprison men for talking about the laws that govern them.”

“Why do you _want_ to make a new Italy of it?” inquired Alice. “What better destiny can you wish for it, than to be like our dear New England?”