A happy smile flitted over his countenance--a pleading remembrance for those who survived him. By midnight all was over; he had passed into the deep, dark sleep of death.
[THE HEREDITARY GOBLET.]
FROM THE SWEDISH OF UNCLE ADAM.
Has the spiritual world any intercourse with the material world? This is a question which must always remain undecided, and which only fools and narrow-minded people definitively answer. It is by analogy alone that we can acquire any kind of right even to guess on this subject--we can determine nothing.
The whole creation is a continuation of imperceptible transitions; it is a close chain, and, in order to arrange it into a system to suit our ideas, the inquirer into it must parcel it into divisions. In nature none exist; the chain itself having no interruptions whatsoever.
As the events of one period influence those of another, by bringing about an uninterrupted series of results, in like manner the powers of nature produce a constant regeneration--a constant repetition of themselves in various forms.
Thus, it is only when we arrive at the boundary between life and eternity, when our conception of forms is no longer applicable, when we are close upon the transition to a higher state of being, that we admit that one link of the chain is missing. Despite of analogy, the want of positive evidence puts it out of our power to prove anything; but, however, the sages of our days, before whose eyes everything, except their own weakness, stands clear, may sneer at me, and consider me superstitious, and a lover of nursery-tales--however the frivolous may ridicule me, or be provoked at my belief in the possibility of such an intercourse--my reason does not reject this belief, and my experience corroborates it.
About twenty years ago I was staying with a lively party in the country. In our circles there reigned a degree of unaffected and openhearted hilarity, an almost childish joy, in which all seemed to participate, and which was not chilled by the highly-polished manners of those who were thus agreeably assembled. It was a charming September afternoon, and the country around was most beautiful; we gave ourselves up to the gaiety and the refreshing enjoyments of a country life. I felt particularly happy, and deeming myself far removed from all earthly sorrow, I fancied that I only breathed to sip in joy with every breath. But I had cause to be joyous, for my sister, who a few years previously had been married against her inclination, had shortly before written me that she now felt very happy with her husband, which hitherto had not been the case. He had altered his conduct, and had become kind, considerate, and cheerful--he was more affectionate and sincere, and Emilie had begun to lead a happier life than she had dared to hope for since the dreadful marriage ceremony had taken place.
This news made me joyful even to extravagance; for I had always loved Emilie more than myself; she had ever been the first to excuse my faults, the readiest to forgive injuries, and to forget her own afflictions; she was my most intimate and most sincere friend, and the whole world might have gazed freely, with me, into her clear eyes, and her pure soul. Her husband, Theodore, on the contrary, had never pleased me; he was one of those reserved, proud beings, who glide like an enigma through life. His feelings and thoughts were like words written in a cipher, to which one vainly endeavours to find the key. In his look there was an inexpressible something, which kept me at a distance; and with his fawning manners, he always appeared to me to resemble a magnificent flower, which even in its pomp looks suspicious--one of Linnæus's Lucidæ.
But I had been mistaken--my sister's letters told me so--her unhappiness had only been occasioned by trifling faults on both sides. I had, therefore, resolved to make atonement for my past injustice, and to become Theodore's friend, however repugnant this might be to my own feelings.