CHAPTER II.

THE SPIRIT LOVERS.--THE DOCTOR'S STORY.

I am about to relate, gentlemen, a curious incident in my medical

experience, many years ago.

When I was yet a young practitioner I had already a numerous circle of

patients, out of which it will be only necessary for me to bring two

cases before you this evening. The first was that of a young man of

about four-and-twenty, whom I shall call Charles. He was of good family,

and his parents were moderately well off. I was called to his bedside,

the former doctor having been dismissed. I had had some conversation

with the parents of the young man before I was ushered into his

presence. They informed me that my predecessor had pronounced his

disease "a rapid decline" and as incurable. But the case had other

peculiarities which puzzled him. The brain, he said, was much affected.

The patient ate little, unlike other consumptive subjects, whose

appetites are usually enormous. He slept much, and talked much in his

sleep, but in his waking moments he was irritable and restless, and

preferred being left alone all day. He could not even bear the sight of

his own parents in his room. He had his regular hours of sleep, and

always seemed to look forward to his hours of rest, especially to his

nightly hours.

I questioned the parents as to how long he had been in this state. They

told me more than a year. I inquired if any member of their family had

ever died of consumption. They replied that not one, either on the

father's side or the mother's, bore the slightest trace of that malady,

and that for many generations back the members of both families had

lived to a good old age. Neither of the parents could give the slightest

account of how the disease originated.

Their son had been sent to the university two or three years before,

where he had studied hard, but without having made up his mind to follow

any particular profession. They suggested that possibly over-study had

sewn the seeds of the disease. He was not, as they assured me, given to

dissipation.

Having ascertained these particulars, I expressed a desire to see the

patient, and was shewn into the sick-room. The parents told me to

prepare for a cool reception, as their son was not over partial to

visitors, and especially doctors. They then retired, leaving me alone

with the patient, as I had previously requested them; for it has always

been my policy to work myself as much as possible into the confidence of

my patients, in order to obtain more minute particulars of their case

which otherwise they might be reserved upon. For this a _tete-a-tete_ is

absolutely necessary, as there are patients who are reserved even in

the presence of their nearest relatives and friends.

The young man, as I entered, was seated in bed, propped up by cushions.

He was in a thoughtful attitude, and for some moments seemed unconscious

of my presence. At length, hearing my footsteps, he started, glared

wildly at me, and turned his face to the wall.

"Come," I said, soothingly, "don't be frightened; I am only the new

doctor. I have come to see if I can't make something out of your case.

Come, turn round. I daresay we shall be better friends before long. What

is this?" I asked, as I laid my hand upon a volume hidden under the

clothes, and examined it. "Ah, Shakespeare!"

"Don't touch it," cried the young man, starting up with sudden energy.

"I never allow my Shakespeare to be polluted by strange hands."

I was rather startled at this sudden burst of irritability from my new

patient, especially in the exhausted state in which I found him, and not

a little amused at the oddity of his caprice.

"You are a great admirer of Shakespeare?" I observed, after a pause.

He did not deign a reply, but fell back languidly on his cushions and

closed his eyes.

"A great poet," I continued. "What insight into character! What

knowledge of mankind! What a versatile genius! With what truth and

exquisite feeling he portrays both the king and the peasant, the

courtier and the jester! How truly he seizes the leading characteristics

of the Jew and the Christian in his 'Merchant of Venice,' to say nothing

of his sublime imagination in the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' and in 'The

Tempest'; the exquisite humours, too, of his 'Merry Wives of Windsor,'

and then there is his----"

At this juncture my patient opened his eyes, and gave me a look that

seemed to say, "Have you done yet?" and, after a pause, said aloud, "I

thought you were the doctor."

"Ah! truly," said I, blushing slightly; "I am afraid, I weary you.

Pardon me if my enthusiasm for your great poet has carried me away from

my professional duties. But, to business. How do you feel at present?"

He eyed me with a peculiar expression, and said, "Do you really want to

know?"

"To be sure I do; haven't I come----"

"You have heard that I have been given over as incurable. The last

doctor was an older man than you. What do you hope to effect?"

"To effect a cure; _I_ do not give you up. I do _not_ think your disease

is consumption. I hope in time to----"

"To what?" he asked, nervously.

"Well, to be able to serve you."

"No," he cried, "not to _serve_ me, but to _cure_ me."

"In curing you, shall I not serve you?"

"No. I do not want to be cured. Leave me to die, if you want to serve

me."

"Oh, my dear young man," I cried, "don't talk like that. Your malady is

not of the sort that you need fear death so soon."

"Fear death!" he exclaimed. "On the contrary, I seek death. I desire to

die."

"What! you desire to die? A young man like you, in the pride of your

youth, with the whole world before you. What can make you so tired of

your life?"

"Because my life's a burden to me."

"Poor young man," I said, "can you have suffered so much! Ah," I

muttered, half to myself, "youth has its sufferings as well as age."

I was young myself then, and I had suffered. I felt the deepest sympathy

for my patient.

"If," I resumed, "in curing you I could make life cease to be a

burden----"

"I would not accept the offer," he replied. "What should I gain by it?

The grosser material part of my nature would be rendered more gross,

more material; capable only of those delights that the grossest minds

revel in, to the utter exclusion of those sublime visions and

inspirations which visit the soul when least clogged with matter. It

would be to exchange a paradise for a pandemonium; high, exalted

thoughts and feelings for low and grovelling ones. No," he said; "he

who, like me, has tasted both lives will hardly throw away the higher

for the lower."

I was puzzled by this last speech of his. Was the brain really affected?

Had I to do with a case of insanity? I studied his physiognomy for some

time in silence. He would have been called decidedly handsome; and yet

that is not the word. I should rather say beautiful, but the complexion

was pallid and the face dreadfully emaciated. The forehead was ample,

but half-eclipsed by a mass of rich, chestnut hair that hung over his

head in disordered waves. The nose was Grecian; the mouth and chin

classic; the eyes were large, dark, and lustrous, with an expression

most unusual and indescribable.

If I may use the expression, he seemed to look through you and beyond

you into space. The expression was quite unlike the vacant stare of the

maniac, for the look abounded with superior intelligence, but yet it was

not that sort of intelligence which men get by mixing in the world. His

look had something _unearthly_ in it--something of another world. I

could not altogether bring myself to believe that he was mad. He would

certainly have been called so by the world at large, which calls

everything madness that does not come within its own narrow circle. His

madness was that his faculties were too acute, his nervous system too

sensitive. When he looked at me he seemed to read my inmost thoughts and

answer them all with his eyes before I had time to open my mouth to give

utterance to them.

I tried to reason with him, tried to show him that very good health was

compatible with the most exalted thoughts, etc. But he always had an

answer ready, and that, too, before the words were half out of my mouth.

He was a perfect study, and I took immense interest in him. He, in turn,

grew more docile and confiding, and after some five or six visits we

were the best of friends.

I have said that he slept much and was given much to talking in his

sleep. It was on my third visit that I had some experience of this. We

were in the midst of an animated discussion, when he suddenly went off

into a most profound slumber; more suddenly than I had ever before known

anyone to fall asleep, and so resembling death that for some time I

thought him dead. At length his lips began to move, and for more than an

hour he kept up a conversation with someone in his dream, part of which

conversation I committed to paper.

"What!" he exclaimed, "this is the spot appointed, and no one near. This

is the trysting tree, yonder the blue mountains, here the rocks. It is

past the hour. Oh, where is she? Will she not come? Must I return to

that darkness mortals call life without seeing her, without hearing one

word? Oh, Edith! shake off these bonds of flesh but for one hour, if,

indeed, you also have a life of clay like me, and are not all spirit.

Can you not spare me _one_ hour? Ah! footsteps! A bush crackles. Edith,

Edith! how glad I am you have come at last. I was afraid you had been

prevented. Why are you so late? What do I see--tears? Tell me what has

happened. Does your father know of our meetings? But how should he? Are

we not in the spirit? Come, tell me all."

Here a pause ensued, as if the lady he was addressing was speaking,

during which time the expression of his face changed several times;

first from one of deep tenderness, next, to that of profound melancholy.

He sighed, then again a bright smile illumined his countenance.

Occasionally a slight frown would cloud his brow for an instant, and his

countenance bore a look of determination. At length he spoke again in

earnest tones.

"Come what may, I will never leave you. Have I not sworn? Are you not

mine to all eternity? We may never meet in the flesh; but what of that.

Are we not happier thus? Unshackled from that fearful darkness that wars

against our spirits? Oh, that we may ever live thus! Would that we could

become all spirit."

Another pause ensued, and after some minutes he resumed.

"And how can your father's paltry caprices affect us--whilst we are in

the spirit, how can the weapons of the flesh attack us?"

A pause, and then he said, "True, as you say, we are not always in the

spirit, and then of course we must be subject to---- But what is it you

fear, Edith?"

Again a pause.

"Do you know," he began again, "that that is the very thought that has

been passing through my mind for some time past. Oh, horrible! If one of

us or both should get entirely cured, so that the doors of the flesh

should close upon us for ever, our spiritual life desert us, without

even the prospect of meeting in the flesh!" Here he groaned deeply. "How

long will this last, this dream of bliss? It began but a year ago. If we

could only escape altogether from our earthly bodies! but I feel that is

impossible as yet; while I speak I feel attracted again towards clay. I

am unable to resist; I feel myself torn away. I am going--going.

Farewell, Edith."

The next moment he awoke. I folded up the paper on which I had been

writing and placed it in my pocket; then turned to my patient. I have

not given here one half of the conversation, I was unable to follow him

with my pen the greater part of the time, for at times he would speak

very rapidly, at other times sink his voice so low that I could not

catch all he uttered.

"I am here again, then," he muttered to himself, with a groan. "When

will this end?"

"You have had pleasant dreams, I hope," said I with a smile.

He looked at me suspiciously, and said, "You have heard me? Then you

know all!"

"What?" I asked.

"Why, all about that----"

"I know nothing," I replied. "It is true you talked in your sleep; you

have been dreaming."

"Call it a dream, if you like," he said. "I exist but in such dreams,

and my waking life is to me but a nightmare."

"Pooh! pooh!" I said. "You must not take such a morbid view of things.

Your brain at present is in a state of fever. We cannot expect always to

be well. I'll give you a composing draught, and in time I hope----"

"Throw physic to the dogs," he replied, quoting from his favourite

author. "Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?"

"Perhaps," said I, "I might manage to do that as well, if you will bide

by my instructions."

"Look here, doctor," he said, at length, "I shall be very happy to see

you whenever you come, to talk with you as a friend, as long as I remain

upon earth, but I refuse point blank to take any of your medicine, so I

don't deceive you."

I tried to expostulate; but how can one reason with a man who wants to

die, and try to persuade him to take physic, itself nauseous, but to

bring him back to the life which he despises? My task was a difficult

one, but I bethought me of a plan. I pretended to humour him, and took

my leave, saying I would call again shortly.

On leaving the sick-room I entered the parlour, where the parents of the

invalid awaited me, to hear my opinion of the case. I told them that the

patient's nerves were in a most sensitive state; I had heard him talk

much in his sleep; that the brain wanted repose. I told them that he had

refused to take any of my medicine because he was tired of his life and

did not wish to prolong it.

I then wrote out a prescription, which I told them to get made up at the

chemist's. It was a composing draught which I desired them to administer

in a tumbler of water, likewise pouring in some sweet syrup to hide the

nauseous taste. Whenever he complained of thirst this medicine was to be

given him. In this manner he would be forced to take my medicines, and

might recover in spite of himself.

Before leaving the house I inquired of Charles' mother if she were aware

of any love affair of her son's that might have sown the first seeds of

this illness. She replied in the negative, but that she was aware that

he often mentioned a lady's name in his sleep--the name "Edith."

She assured me that there was not a single young lady of her

acquaintance who bore that name; that she was at a loss to conceive how

he could have made the acquaintance of any lady for the last two years

without her knowing it, as he had led such a very retired life since he

had left the university. Truly, he might have made her acquaintance

whilst at Oxford, but, then, he had never shown any symptoms of his

present malady for long after.

I left the house, giving them all the hope I could, and promised to call

again on the morrow. The morrow arrived, and I called again. My draught

had been administered, and I thought that my patient was a degree less

nervous. Whether it was my fancy or what, I know not, but it seemed to

me that the invalid suspected I had been tampering with him. He said

nothing, but I thought I read it in his eyes.

"How did you sleep last night?" I asked.

"Well," he replied; "but somehow I fancy that my dreams last night were

less vivid."

"Not a bad sign," I observed. "Dreaming is a bad thing--sign of a

disordered stomach."

"Some dreams--not all," he replied.

"No, not all; but those very vivid dreams that you allude to all proceed

from a bad digestion or over-heated brain."

"Then, you set down all dreams to some physical cause?"

"Certainly," said I; "though the character of the dream will be shaped

according to our waking thoughts."

"Well, yes," he replied, "generally it is so. I myself once used to have

those sort of dreams. But have you never met with a patient who lived

two separate existences, whose spirit during sleep wandered into those

realms allotted to it; returning upon waking to the body, there to drag

out a wretched existence in the world, among the hum of men, and pass

his melancholy hours longing for the night, when his spirit would be

again set free from its prison, to wander unrestrained through those

realms of space untrodden by mortal foot?"

"Never," I replied; "and if I were to meet with a man who imagined he

passed two different existences, what proof have I that his dreams are

nothing more than imagination? What proof have I that he _really does_

live two separate lives?"

"Proof such as you would desire to have I admit is difficult; but let us

suppose a case. What would you say if, in the course of a life-time's

experience, you were to find some few, very rare, cases of men as I

describe, who believe, as you would say, that their spirit during sleep

leaves the body and revels in a world of its own. That you were to read

of some few other cases of the same sort that have occurred now and then

at rare intervals since the world began, and that the written

description of that abode unknown to mortal tread, were to tally in

every particular with the descriptions you yourself received from some

of your patients?"

"Well," I replied, "I should say, either that my patients had been

reading these old legends until their brains were turned, or that it was

a malady, and, like all other maladies, was manifested by certain

special symptoms. Hence the similarity of the descriptions."

"I knew that would be your reply," he observed. "Doctor, doctor," he

continued, shaking his head, "you have a great deal to learn."

"Have you, then," I enquired, "ever met with a man of that sort?"

"I know _one_. What should you say, doctor, if I myself was one of those

men?"

"You! I should say that your imagination deluded you, that your present

ill state of health is sufficient to account for any freak of the brain,

however eccentric."

"Deluded mortal," he muttered. "Alas! by what circuitous paths do men

persistently seek for error, when the high road of Truth lies ever

before their eyes."

We discoursed upon various other topics, and I took my leave of Charles,

leaving instructions with his parents concerning the treatment of their

son, as I should not be able to call again for some days. I had to

attend a young lady in the country, the adopted daughter of a very old

friend of mine. I could not refuse to go, so I started next day by the

mail.

Charles' conversation had impressed me deeply, and I meditated upon it

as I sat perched up outside the stage-coach. I was sorry to leave him,

for I had already felt quite an affection for him, independently of the

interest I took in his case.

And who was this young lady that I was called upon to visit in such a

hurry? I had never seen her, but for the sake of my friend who had

benefited me in so many ways in the commencement of my career, I could

not do otherwise than leave town for a short time.

I tried to picture to myself my new patient--some bread-and-butter girl

with the mumps, hysteria, whooping-cough, or chicken-pox. The picture I

mentally drew of my lady patient was not sentimental; but, the fact

was, I was irritated at being obliged to leave such an interesting case

as that in which I was engaged. During the course of my drive I entered

into conversation with the driver. I asked him if he knew Squire L----.

He replied in the affirmative.

"Let me see," said I, pretending not to know the squire over well, in

order to draw him out, "the squire has no family, I think?"

"None of his own, sir. He has one adopted daughter, a foundling, found

somewhere near Stratford-on-Avon. The squire has adopted her ever since,

and----"

"What age is the young lady?"

"Well, sir, she must now be hard upon four-and-twenty, though she did

not look it last time I saw her."

"As old as that!" I exclaimed. "Then she will be getting married soon, I

suppose?"

"Not she, sir."

"Why not?" I asked. "Isn't she personally attractive?"

"Oh, I believe you, sir," said the coachman, enthusiastically, and

turning up his eyes. "There is not a face in the whole place for miles

round that can hold a candle to her."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed. "The squire is rich, too, as I hear, and I

suppose she will be his heiress. What is your reason for believing that

she will not marry?"

"Why, sir, she has such ill health; she never leaves the house. Folks

say as how she will never recover."

"Indeed, and how long has she been thus?"

"About a year ago she was first seized; since then I have not seen her.

When I last saw her wasn't she a beauty, neither!"

"I suppose this illness will have pulled her down a little. By the by,

what is the nature of her complaint?"

"Well, I hardly know, sir, and that's the truth, what it is that do ail

her. Some folks call it consumption, others call it something else."

"Who is her medical attendant?" I asked.

"Doctor W----, sir; lives down yonder."

"What does he say it is?"

"'Pon my word, sir, I don't think he knows more about it than other

folks. Them doctors, when they once gets into a house, there's no

getting them out again; and as for the good they do, they dose you, they

bleed you--ay, bleed you in both senses of the word! Ha! ha! You know

what I mean, sir."

I was disgusted at the vulgar contempt of this man for the noble

profession of which I myself was a member, and was determined not to

laugh at his low wit. I passed over his execrable joke with gravity, so

as not to appear to see it.

"If the doctor knows so little about it," I said, at length, "what do

the people say it is? What is the popular opinion of the young lady's

malady? What are the symptoms?"

I saw by the coachman's countenance that he was rather surprised at the

interest I took in the health of the young lady, and I fancy he

suspected that I was a doctor.

"Symptoms, sir!" he cried. "Oh, sir, very strange ones, they say."

"How strange?" I asked.

"Well, sir, there be a good many strange reports about the squire's

adopted daughter. I b'ain't a-goin' to give credit to everything I hear,

but folks _do_ say----" here he lowered his voice almost to a whisper

and looked mysteriously, first over one shoulder, then over the other.

"Well," said I, "Folks say----"

"Yes, sir, folks _do_ say that the young lady, leastways, the squire's

adopted daughter, is--is----" (here he put his finger to his lips and

looked still more mysterious).

"Well?" said I, impatiently.

"That the poor young lady is under some evil spell--that she is

_bewitched_."

"Dear me! you don't say so," I exclaimed, with well-feigned

astonishment.

"Yes, sir," he replied; "leastways, so folks say about here."

"How very dreadful! Poor young lady! Perhaps she is in love. Love is the

only witchcraft that ever came in the way of my experience," I remarked.

"And sure, sir, you're not far out there neither; for if there's one

thing more like witchcraft than another, it is that same _love_. Lor',

bless yer, sir, don't I remember when I was courtin' my Poll, how I'd

stand under her winder of a rainy night for hours, just to get a peep at

her shadow on the winder blind, and how I'd go for days without my beer,

till folks didn't know what to make of me? Ah! but I got over it,

though, in time. I got cured, but" (here he gave me a knowing look) "it

wasn't by a _doctor_. No, sir, it wasn't by a _doctor_," he said, with a

contemptuous emphasis on the last word.

"Now, who do you think it was by, sir, that I got cured?" he asked.

"I haven't the slightest idea," I replied, dryly, disgusted at the man's

manner.

"Why, the _Parson_! to be sure," he exclaimed. "Ha, ha!" giving me a dig

in the ribs with his undeveloped thumb. "Yes, sir, the parson beat the

doctor out and out in that ere business. He, he!"

I dare say the joke was very witty, but I was in no humour for laughing

just then; yet, after all, he did not know I was a doctor, so I

condescended to give a grin, a spasmodic grin like that a corpse may be

supposed to give when the risible muscles are set in motion by the wires

of a galvanic battery.

He then began to relate to me some of the many superstitions afloat

concerning the above-mentioned lady, till I grew curious to make the

acquaintance of my new patient. In the middle of one of his long

stories, he pointed out to me the house of my friend Squire L----, so I

descended and walked up the hill leading to his house.

Arrived there, I rang, and was shown into the parlour, and upon giving

my name, was soon cordially received by my old friend. We had not met

for years. He had much to tell me, and seemed very much concerned about

the health of his adopted daughter, whom he loved as if she had been his

own flesh and blood.

His wife soon entered, and having expressed much pleasure at seeing me

after so long, began giving me the peculiar symptoms of the lady's case.

"I do not know what to make of her, my dear doctor," she said; "for a

whole year past she has not been the same girl. She will not eat, nor

see anyone; seems quite estranged towards us, gets nervous and irritable

if anyone approaches her; sleeps much and talks much during her sleep,

and frequently imagines in her dream that she is holding conversation

with a young man whom she addresses as Charles."

I started. The lady and her husband both noticed my emotion, and

inquired into its cause. I told them that the case of their adopted

daughter so nearly resembled the case of a young man in London whom I

was still in the habit of attending, that the similarity of the symptoms

struck me with no little surprise.

"Indeed, doctor," said the lady. "Is it possible that there can be two

such extraordinary cases in the world?"

I mused a little, and then observed, "You do not think, do you, that the

first cause of this strange malady was some little affair of the

heart?"

"Oh, dear no, doctor," she replied. "I am certain of it. The girl has

never had the opportunity of forming the acquaintance of any young men.

She has never left this village in her life, though she has often begged

me to take her to London; but somehow I----"

"What! you say she has never been to London--not even for a day?"

"Never," she replied.

I began musing to myself, when I was interrupted from my train of

thought by the voice of the patient calling out, in agonising tones,

"Charles! Charles!"

"Edith, my love! what _is_ the matter?" cried Mrs. L----, rising and

leaving the room.

"Edith!" I muttered to myself. "How strange! What a strange link between

the two cases." I did not know what to make of it all. However, I kept

the particulars of Charles' case to myself for the present, and

determined to investigate the matter closely.

"Can I see the patient?" I asked of my old friend.

"Certainly; we will go together," he said.

"Thank you, but I should prefer a private interview with her, if

possible. Patients sometimes will not be communicative to the doctor in

presence of others, even though they be their own relations. It is

always my plan to----"

"Ah, exactly, doctor," he replied; "but I am afraid she will not give

you a very warm reception."

"Oh," I replied, "as to that, I am accustomed to the very worst of

receptions from some of my patients."

My friend led me to the chamber of the young lady, whom I discovered in

bed, propped up by cushions, talking to Mrs. L----.

"This is Dr. Bleedem, my love," said the squire. "Now, don't be shy, but

tell him all that you feel the matter with you. I shall leave him alone

with you. Don't be nervous; he is a very old friend of mine."

Then, beckoning to his wife, he drew her away, and left me alone with my

patient.

The first thing that struck me upon entering the chamber was the

remarkable likeness my new patient bore to Charles. They might well have

been brother and sister, though the hair of Edith was dark and her eyes

a deep grey. The features were wonderfully alike, and the eyes had that

same strange unearthly expression I have already described as belonging

to Charles. Contrary to my expectations, she received me most civilly;

very differently to the manner in which I was treated by Charles on our

first interview. I was at a loss to account for this, as my friend had

warned me not to hope for a very warm reception.

"Oh, doctor!" she exclaimed, "I am so glad you have come. Your presence

brings me relief. You are the only person whose sight I have been able

to tolerate for this last year and more."

I was thunderstruck. What could she mean? "Some caprice, I suppose.

Perhaps my old friend has been putting in a good word for me."

"No, doctor," she said, answering to my thoughts in a manner that

perfectly amazed me; "no; it is not as you think. The squire never told

me until this moment that you were an old friend of his. It is not for

that that I feel myself drawn towards you by some almost unaccountable

sympathy; but, to tell you the truth, doctor, I have long felt the want

of someone to confide in, and you are just the one; you must forgive my

boldness, if it offends you, whom I should like to make my father

confessor."

I smiled at the innocent want of restraint with which she uttered these

words, and said I should be most happy to fulfil the office.

"Should you, doctor?" she replied. "Well, I shall be most unreserved

towards you, and I hope you will return the compliment, and tell me all

it is in your power to communicate."

I looked surprised, and asked, "Of what--of whom would you hear?"

"Doctor," she said, fixing upon me those deep grey orbs, with a glance

that seemed to read my inmost soul, "do not deceive me; you _know_ that

you have been with _him_."

"Who can she mean?" I mentally asked. "Can she mean Charles?"

"Yes," she answered to my thought, "with _him_--with _Charles_. Hide

nothing from me, doctor. I see you look surprised that I should know

where you come from; but my senses are too keen, too abnormally acute,

not to perceive that you carry about you _the particles of his being_

as unmistakably as if you had been amongst roses or honeysuckles. Can I

be deceived when you come to me directly from the chamber of the only

man I ever loved in my life, with the atoms of his nature clinging to

you? Think you that I know aught of your doings? That I have been

informed as to where _he_ lives? I tell you, No; I know nothing but what

my senses tell me. I feel you have been with him, and whatever you might

tell me to the contrary would not make me believe otherwise."

"Well," I said smiling, "I don't deny that I _have_ just come from a

patient in London, whose name is Charles; but London is large, and there

are many Charleses."

"I do not care _where_ your patient is--whether at London or the North

Pole, I shall probably never come across him; in fact, I don't see that

it would aid matters much if I were to. I have never seen him--that is

to say, with these eyes--and probably never may," she said, with a deep

sigh.

"Do I understand you to say that you have never seen this young man you

talk about, and yet you take so much interest in him?"

"Never with the eyes of the body," she replied.

"How, then?" I asked.

"With the eyes of the spirit."

"That is to say," I resumed, "that this young man named Charles is but a

creature of the imagination--that he has no real existence."

"Oh, pardon me," she replied; "decidedly he has an existence--a double

one. A bodily one, of which I know nothing; and a spiritual one, of

which I know more."

"How?" I asked. "You have never seen him in the flesh, but are yet

acquainted with his spirit. Does the spirit leave his body and appear to

you?"

"Precisely so."

"Oh! but these are hallucinations, my dear young lady," I said, "that

patients in your state of health are frequently subject to."

"No, doctor; say not so," she answered. "It is now more than a year

since, that in my dream, as I was walking alone in a beautiful garden, I

met a young man, also quite alone and reading. He was of extraordinary

personal beauty. He looked at me a moment and passed by. The very next

evening I had the same dream--there he was again. The dream was so very

vivid, that I could not believe it to be one of those ordinary dreams so

common to persons suffering from indigestion. There was such a reality

about the whole--the garden, the terraces, the old house--altogether had

too much truth about it to have been a dream."

"And what do you think it was, if not a dream?" I asked, smiling.

"Nothing less," she replied "than a glimpse into that world so zealously

guarded from our mortal eyes as to make us doubt of its existence, or,

at least, to hold it as something so ethereal and visionary that we

tremble even to speculate on it; but which, nevertheless, exists, has

existed, and will exist to all eternity in form as palpable as the earth

we this day inhabit."

I mused a little, then said, "Dreams are often very vivid; I know that

by experience, but upon waking I have always been able to account for

them in some way or other."

"Don't call this a dream of mine, doctor," she said. "In everything it

is most unlike the dreams of your experience. Those you allude to are

vivid only for one night, and disperse into air on waking. Such is not

the case with my dreams. The dream of each night to me is the

continuation of the dream of the preceding night, and this has been

regularly going on for more than a year, each dream being crowded with a

series of events such as would be sufficient to fill up a lifetime; and

so vivid, indeed, is the colouring of everything in these visions, that

I no more doubt in a double existence than that I am talking to you at

the present moment. In awaking, too, I find, that instead of vanishing

like an ordinary dream, I bear ever afterwards the strongest

recollection of everything that has happened during my period of sleep."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed. "It is very strange. I am just attending a young

man in London who shares your complaint. The case is a rare one; I never

came across one before at all like it. The coincidence about the whole

affair is so strange, too. His name happens to be Charles, and whilst

talking in his sleep as they tell me you do, I have heard him mention

the name Edith. Your name, is it not?"

"'Tis he! 'Tis he!" exclaimed my patient, enthusiastically, throwing up

her arms and clasping her hands above her head. "I knew it, I knew it!

But tell me more about him, doctor! I did not see him last night, and I

was so unhappy. The night before he appeared to me less distinct than he

had ever done before. Oh, doctor," she cried, in an agonising tone, "you

are _curing_ him, you are _curing_ him!" much in the same way as she

might have called out, "You are _killing_ him!"

"Yes, I hope to some day. There is no great harm in that, I suppose?" I

remarked.

"Oh, yes, indeed!" she cried; "you are imprisoning his spirit within his

body, and I shall never see him again."

"Well," I thought to myself, "this is about the oddest courtship _I_

ever heard of; but," I continued, aloud, "supposing I could cure you

both; then, afterwards, you might meet in the flesh; and how much better

that would be. You would preserve your health and----"

"No, no," she cried. "Do you think our joys could be half so intense, so

ethereal, in a fleshly life as when walking in the spirit? No, doctor,

have mercy upon both of us, and leave us to die; we shall then be all

spirit."

"Charles' sentiments exactly," I muttered.

"Are they not?" she said, brightening up. "He, then, has let you into

the secret of this phenomenon of his being! Oh, doctor," she exclaimed,

"don't, don't, _cure him_!"

She spoke with such agony of feeling, that I could not help feeling the

deepest sympathy for her, and I actually for a moment began to waver in

my duties as a medical man. I began to think that, if, as it now

appears, two human beings, having never met in the body, are

nevertheless by some occult law of nature, permitted to hold communion

with each other in the spirit as lovers, what cruelty in me to try and

cut short their happy time of courtship! Would it not be kinder in me

(seeing that the order of their beings differs so from that of the rest

of the herd) to go against the common duties of my profession, and

instead of trying to remedy the malady, to accelerate it, till it

resulted in death.

"But no," I said to myself, immediately; "my reputation, my conscience.

What! _I_ a poisoner! No," I said; "we must all die some day, and my two

lover patients must hold out in this life a little longer. Death comes

soon enough for all, and then, if their spirit love was as lasting as it

appeared to be intense, they might resume their amours after this mortal

coil was doffed. What are a few paltry years compared with the

immeasurable gulf of eternity?" Thus I mused, but suddenly I said, "You

will not mind taking a little light physic, will you?"

"What! to make me well!" she exclaimed. "To imprison my spirit within

my body, as you have done Charles'. But stay, if I take your physic, it

will not be yet. I will wait to see if Charles is really lost to me for

ever. If he does not appear again all this week, then his spirit has no

longer power to wander from the body, and if he is lost to me, why

should I wander about in the spirit seeking him in vain? I might just as

well be cured as not."

"Very well," I said; "then, for the present it is needless to administer

any medicine?"

"Not at present, doctor," she said.

I took up my hat to go, and said that I would call again soon and would

bring her tidings of Charles; that I was going there straight from her.

"Stay, stay," she said. "You have told me nothing about him as yet."

"Well, my dear young lady," I said, "I really do not know what to tell

you about him. Like yourself, he refused to take my medicine, and----"

"What, he refused! Then how is it that he is getting well? That he does

not appear to me now? Doctor, you have had something administered on the

sly. I know it. I see it in your face;" and the look that she gave me

was so penetrating, that I quite quailed under it, and was obliged to

admit that I had.

"And you are going to try the same trick with me. Oh! oh!"

Here she groaned, and threw herself forward on the bed in agony.

"My dear Miss Edith," I said, compassionately, "calm yourself; pray

reflect. I can't, I daren't leave you to die. Be persuaded, and take

only a little harmless, quieting medicine, not nauseous to the taste,

and which may not have the effect of making you cease to dream."

But my fair patient was not to be persuaded, so, with hat in hand, I

made another step towards the door.

"Stay, doctor," she said; "whatever you do, keep our conversation secret

from the people of the house."

"Certainly," said I. "Has it not been under the 'seal of confession!'"

"True, true," she said; "and, doctor--would you mind--if you are really

going to call upon--Charles, to--to--take a relic to him of me?"

"Not at all," I said. "On the contrary, I should be most happy; but--" I

said, after a moment's reflection, "but--your parents--would they

object, do you think?"

"Oh, don't be afraid, doctor," she replied. "I am very independent, and

as for yourself, your name needn't get mixed up in the transaction."

Here she reached a pair of scissors, and severed one of her long ebony

tresses, which she handed to me with these words:

"Take this," she said, "to my spirit lover, and tell him Edith sends him

this in the flesh, and hopes to see him again in the spirit."

I promised I would do as she desired, and shaking hands with her, I left

the apartment.

My friend and his wife awaited me in the parlour, and asked me my

opinion of their daughter's case. I gave them hope of her recovery; but

told them that she had positively refused to take any of my medicines,

and I therefore adopted the same man[oe]uvre that I had adopted with

Charles, and was forced to leave the medicine to be administered

clandestinely. I wrote out a prescription and left the house, saying I

would call again in a day or two. I took the mail that evening, and

started for London. Finding myself at length arrived in the great

metropolis, my first thought was to call upon Charles.

As I entered his chamber the expression on my patient's countenance was

one of deepest melancholy. When he first caught sight of me I thought he

looked suspicious, and was going to turn away, but as I approached him

his countenance altogether changed, and grew so bright and radiant, that

he did not look the same man. He had never welcomed me before in this

way, and his manner puzzled me.

"Oh, doctor," he cried, in tones of the greatest joy, "is it possible

you have seen her? I know you have; I can't be mistaken."

"Seen who?" I asked, smiling.

"Come, doctor," he said "you know all about it; don't pretend to

ignore----"

"Ignore what?" I enquired, with provoking pertinacity.

"Oh, doctor, doctor! you'll drive me mad," exclaimed my patient. "Tell

me all about her at once, and keep me no longer in suspense. Oh, Edith!

Edith! I feel your presence. Come, doctor, tell me about _Edith_."

"What Edith?" I exclaimed. "Are there not many of that name? It is true

I _do_ come from a young lady patient whose name _happens_ to be Edith.

What then?"

"The same! I knew it, I knew it," he cried. "Tell me all about her,

doctor; you have seen her, and spoken to her. Oh! we may yet meet in the

flesh, even if she be denied me in the spirit. Did you tell her of my

case, doctor?"

I nodded my head.

"I told her," said I, "that I was attending a young man whose symptoms

very much resembled her own. Oh! I had a long talk with her, I assure

you; and what do you think she wants of me?" I asked. "Why, she was

actually unfeeling enough to ask me not to cure you; she was, indeed."

"My own dear Edith!" he exclaimed. "Of course she doesn't want me cured;

and, doctor, if you would do both her and me a kindness, don't--oh,

don't--cure her."

"Well, you're an amiable couple, I'm fancying," said I. "I wonder

whether there are many more such loving couples in the world as you

two."

"Well, doctor," he said, smiling, "have you any more news for me?"

"Perhaps I may have," I answered, mysteriously. "What should you say if

she entrusted me with a present to you?"

"A present from _her_! Oh, doctor, don't trifle with me. Is it really

so?"

Hereupon I thrust my hand into my pocket, and produced the lock of hair,

wrapped up in a piece of tissue paper. He made a snatch at it with his

long lean fingers, and tearing it open, exclaimed, "_Her_ hair! I could

swear to it anywhere. What did she say, doctor, when she gave this into

your hands?"

"She said," said I, "'Take this to my spirit lover, and tell him Edith

sends him this in the flesh, and hopes to see him again in the spirit.'"

"Bless her! bless her!" he cried, enthusiastically kissing the relic

repeatedly and pressing it to his heart.

I allowed this transport to pass well over before I spoke again. At

length I enquired how he had passed the night.

"Badly," he replied, sulkily.

"What! have you not felt quieter, more composed?"

"Oh, yes," he answered; "you don't suppose that I am ignorant that you

have been drugging me?" he said, casting at me a look of reproach.

"Drugging you?" I exclaimed.

"Yes; did you think I couldn't taste that stuff that you got my parents

to give me through all its disguise? Do you think I did not feel its

influence?"

"A salutary influence only, I hope," I answered, being forced at length

to admit the stratagem that I had felt it my duty to adopt.

"What you would call a salutary influence," he retorted. "But do you

know," he added, almost fiercely, "that you have robbed me of those

dreams that constituted the better part of my life? In fact, my _real_,

my _only_ life."

"I am sorry for that," I remarked. "Do you then not dream at all now?"

"If I dream, I do _but_ dream--like all ordinary mortals, but my second

existence is closed, I fear, for ever. I will tell you what I dreamt

last night. I walked towards the entrance of a beautiful garden where I

had often been in the habit of meeting Edith, and I found the gate

closed. I shook it, and tried to open it by main force, when I noticed

something written over the gate. I read these words, 'This is the abode

of spirits untrammelled by the flesh.'

"I did not know other than that I was as much in the spirit as on any of

the preceding nights, so I tried the gate again, only to meet with the

same success; but this time I heard a voice calling out, 'Thy flesh hath

grown upon thy spirit--the doors of thy soul are closed--hence! back to

earth!' I made one more desperate effort, and called out, 'Edith!

Edith!' but my voice went forth from me weak, like a voice in the

distance. Nevertheless, my cry was answered. I heard Edith's voice

within the garden calling out my name, but in very feeble tones. My ears

were too grossly clogged with flesh to hear distinctly spiritual

sounds. I was aware of Edith's presence. She shook the garden gate with

her hands and spoke to me through the bars, but I saw no form. I heard

only her voice.

"'Come to me,' she said, in what appeared a suppressed whisper. 'Oh,

what is this, Charles? Why cannot you come?'

"Then the same unknown voice that had addressed me before spoke again,

'Spirit to spirit--flesh to flesh!' and I felt myself whirled back from

the garden gate as by a whirlwind, and I awoke."

"The dream is strange," I observed. "Have you many such dreams?" I

asked.

"Up to the present time, thank goodness, no; but who knows if to-night I

shall be able to dream at all?"

"You will sleep all the sounder if you don't. Dreams always come when

the sleep is disturbed," said I.

"Doctor, would you rob me of all I have to live for by your drugs?" he

exclaimed.

"I should be sorry," I replied, "if my drugs have the unfortunate effect

of robbing you of pleasant dreams; but it is my first duty as a medical

man to remedy the physical ills of my patients."

"Well, no more drugs for me, that's all," he said, positively. "The next

article of food I take that tastes in the slightest degree of physic I

shall certainly throw away."

"In that case," I replied, "if there is no way of administering

medicine to you, this must be my last visit. It is useless calling on a

patient who refuses to be cured."

"Well, doctor," he said, "I shall be sorry to lose you, as your

conversation serves to cheer my waking death. Of course, I can't expect

you to put yourself out of the way to come here for nothing; but if at

any time you are not better employed, just drop in as a friend."

"Well," I said, "I should not like to drop an acquaintance so

interesting. But, the subject of medicine apart, you really must take a

little more nutriment than you do."

This was what was really the matter with him. The body was worn away

through insufficient diet, till the patient was in a state bordering on

starvation; and this had been for a long time persisted in, as the

invalid found a morbid delight in those vivid dreams peculiar to all

people who practise long fasting; and so loth was he to give up his

beloved dreamland, that he was ready to sacrifice life itself.

We chatted together for some time longer, and he related to me many of

his dreams, which were all of a most extraordinary character. At length

I got up to go, saying I would call on the morrow, and entered the

parlour where the parents of the young man were seated. They asked me

how my patient progressed. I told them he wanted plenty of nutriment,

and, without ordering further medicine, I told them to give him plenty

of mutton broth, beef tea, and other nutritious things, and to put them

as close to his bed as possible, that the smell of the savoury food

might awaken his appetite.

They promised to comply with my request, and I quitted the house. I had

one or two other cases to attend to after that, which interested me in a

much less degree, after which I returned home, and committed to paper

the leading peculiarities of the cases of Charles and Edith.

In the course of the morrow I called again upon Charles. I thought he

looked better. There was certainly a change in him since my first visit.

"Well," I asked, "and how did you sleep last night?"

"Oh, doctor!" he answered, "such a dream!"

"Well, come, what was it?"

"I thought," he began, "that I was again in search of that garden gate

that I have before alluded to, but when I came in sight of it it was no

longer distinct and tangible as on the preceding night, but misty in

outline, and as I approached it seemed to recede and grew more misty, as

if I saw it through a fog. The fog grew more and more dense, like an

immense black cloud, and I saw nothing. Then the cloud seemed to

solidify, and it turned to a solid wall of stone, and I found myself

suddenly enclosed within what looked like the courtyard of a prison. I

looked out for some loophole, but all attempt at escape appeared

impossible. My eye soon caught an inscription on the wall, which ran

thus, 'The boundary of the body.'

"'What,' I said, within myself, 'can my spirit no longer soar into those

blissful realms it was wont formerly to revel in? Must I tamely submit

to this imprisonment without one effort? No,' I said; 'never will I

basely give in thus.' And, noticing a wide chink between the stones, I

placed the tip of my foot in. I soon found another notch for my fingers.

There was no one near, so, finding higher up another chink, I put the

other foot in that, and after considerable difficulty and danger,

succeeded in reaching the top of the wall. I found that the prison was

built on a high rock in the middle of the sea, and guarded by demon

sentinels.

"I looked out into the distance. There was nothing but sea and sky, and

that, too, seemed so blended together as to appear all one element. In

whatever direction I chanced to gaze, all was vast, infinite,

indefinable.

"'Yonder must be the realms of the spirit,' I muttered to myself, as I

lolled upon the summit of the prison wall. The words I uttered fell upon

the ear of a demon sentinel below, armed with a long halberd. He raised

the alarm, and I was forced to descend from my perch. Finding myself

once more in the prison yard, I heard rapid footsteps behind me, and the

jingling of keys. I turned round suddenly and beheld the jailor.

"'What is this place?' I asked, somewhat sternly, 'and why am I here?'

"'This building,' answered the jailor, 'is called _the prison-house of

flesh_, and the reason you are here is that you belong to "our sort."'

"I groaned, and followed the jailor, who led me below into some horrid

cell, where the daylight scarce entered. He turned the key upon me and I

awoke."

"Dear me," said I, "that was a very disagreeable dream. There was

nothing about Miss Edith in that," I said, smiling wickedly.

"No," he said, savagely, "and whose face do you think the jailor's was

in my dream?"

"I have no idea," I replied.

"Why, _yours_, doctor!" said the young man, suddenly starting up with

extreme energy, and darting a look of ferocity towards me.

"Yes, doctor, you are my jailor; it is you who have closed my spirit up

in its prison-house of flesh, so that it can no longer soar together in

the company of the higher intelligences. It is you who have driven me

back again to earth and made me an equal of such minds as your own.

_You_ have robbed me of the only woman I ever loved in my life,

_you_----"

"Stay, young man, one moment," I said, "and calm yourself. Is this your

gratitude for the relic I brought you yesterday? If I, as you say, have

robbed you of one of your lives, don't I offer you another which to a

young man of your age and position is a state of existence that I can't

say how many would _envy_, and which, after all, is doing nothing more

than my duty as a medical man. Then, as to robbing you of the lady you

love, haven't I the power of making you acquainted with her some day in

the flesh, if all goes well, and I succeeded in curing you both?"

"If such a meeting should take place, do you think," he said, "that we

should experience in the same intense degree those chaste joys of love,

as if we were in the spirit, when our souls, unfettered from any

particle of clay, are raised to that sublime pitch that we are enabled

to understand the profound and lofty discourse of angels and become

ourselves for the time a part of the heavenly bodies?"

"My dear young man," I observed, "life is short. If the paradise you are

in the habit of entering in your dreams be indeed that place where all

good souls hope to go after death, you have but to wait for a few

years----"

"Wait a few years!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "when every minute spent

away from _her_ appears a century! It's very plain _you_ are not in

love."

"In the meantime," I said, "content yourself with a life of flesh like

any other rational mortal."

He began to reflect upon my words, so I thought I would improve the

opportunity, and, if possible, try and make him turn human, so I

observed,

"I shall not be here to-morrow; I am going to visit Miss Edith. Shall I

take her any message?"

"Oh, yes, doctor, certainly, by all means; that is, I'll write. Give me

some paper, pen and ink."

Having handed him these materials, he sat up in bed and penned an

epistle to his lady-love in the flesh, which he sealed and handed to me.

I assured him of its safety in my hands, and took my leave of him for

some days, hoping to find him more reconciled to humanity on my return.

Having given the parents of Charles further instructions with regard to

their son, I took my departure, and shortly afterwards taking the stage,

was _en route_ for my friend's country seat, where I arrived early the

next morning.

"And how is our patient?" I asked, as I shook hands with my friend at

the threshold.

"I fancy she sleeps sounder, doctor," he replied. "We are not so often

disturbed by her talking in her sleep."

"Good," said I; "her nerves will be getting a little stronger. Can I see

her?"

"Oh, yes; walk straight to her room."

As I entered, my patient was sitting up in bed, reading.

"Ah!" said I, after the customary salutations, "we are better this

morning, eh?"

"Oh, doctor, is that you? I am glad you have come."

"What book is that?" I asked, at the same time looking at the title.

"Ah! Shakespeare. That is Charles' favourite author."

"I know it, doctor. Oh, how often have we read it together; but now,

alas!"

"Why alas?" asked I.

"Ah, doctor," she replied, shaking her head slowly, "I never see him

now. You are curing him, and me, too. Of what value to me is a body in

perfect health, when it imprisons within it a wounded soul?"

"Come, let me see if I can't bring some balm to the wounded soul," I

said, producing from my pocket Charles' letter.

"From him?" she exclaimed. "Oh, doctor, I shall be for ever grateful to

you. I dreamt I received a letter from him last night. How is

he--better? Stay, let me read."

She tore open the letter and read in an undertone, just loud enough for

me to hear:

"Angel of my dreams--Charles in the flesh pens thee these poor lines,

greeting. How art thou, now shut from me! The doors of the body have

closed upon my spirit, and I feel that I no more belong to the same

order of beings as a few nights ago. For me now thou may'st wait in vain

in the garden, by the trysting tree, in the wild forest, by the sea

shore, in the desert, by the foaming cataract, on the bleak mountain

top, or by moonlight on the crags of the wild glacier, wherever the

wings of thy spirit may carry thee. I cannot follow thee. I linger in

chains of clay, and languish from day to day in my prison-house of

flesh, whilst thou---- But, stay, perhaps the lot I bear may be thy own;

perhaps the doors of the flesh may have closed upon _thy_ spirit also.

Oh, if it be that our souls are for ever banished from that Paradise

which they have so often revelled in together! What have we further to

look forward to but those earthly joys known to the most grovelling

mortal? This is a melancholy prospect, my Edith, for us who remember

(however, indistinctly--from the growth of that clay--over _thy_ spirit

perchance, as well as my own) those divine joys we experienced together

when our spirits walked untrammelled from our bonds of clay and our

souls melted into the harmony of those spheres which are their proper

element. How the weight of this mortal coil oppresses me as I write! I

can think of nothing that is untainted with the gross material nature

that surrounds me. My dreams of late confirm my horrible suspicions.

When, the other night, I sought thee at the garden gate, where enter

only spirits untrammelled by the flesh, didst thou hear that voice that

turned me away, and bid me return to earth? Oh! Edith, let us both make

another effort before it is too late. Perhaps even now----"

Here the patient dropped her voice, and her eye scanned the paper in

silence, from which I inferred that there was something about myself in

it that she did not wish me to know; but I had heard enough. Charles

wanted to persuade his lady-love to battle against all my efforts to

bring her round to a proper state of health, and intended doing the same

himself. Here was a regular conspiracy--two patients already all but on

the point of death, had leagued together to starve themselves outright,

and so baffle all the doctor's efforts to save them. Oh, it was

downright suicide. I did not know exactly what to do.

"This is the last time I'll act as Mercury between two lovers," thought

I.

I had a momentary thought of watching for an opportunity to get the

letter into my hands, unobserved by my patient after she had finished

reading it, and then of crumpling it up abstractedly, and throwing it

into the fire, as it was winter and a large fire was made up in the

patient's room, thinking that the impression might wear off her mind

after having read the letter only once; but how might not her lover's

words influence her if she were allowed to read and re-read his letter

when left alone? No opportunity, however, presented itself, for after

she had finished reading it she kissed it fervently and placed it in her

bosom and held it there, glancing at me rather suspiciously, as I

thought, as if she read my intentions in my face; but this might have

been fancy.

However, I tried what I could do in the way of argument, to show the

advantage of keeping a sound mind in a sound body, besides pointing out

the probability of her some day--perhaps before long--meeting her lover

in the flesh, and that there was no reason why they need not eventually

be happy. I talked to her much of Charles, and hoped to see her again

soon, though I should not call so very often now, as my visits would not

be necessary. I left her, giving instructions to her parents to

administer to her all sorts of nutritious food, as I had done to the

parents of Charles concerning their son.

I let some little time pass over before I called upon either of my

lover-patients again. I at length called upon Charles, and found him all

but recovered. Though still weak, his face had filled out considerably,

and his nerves were no longer so morbidly acute, and his countenance had

lost to a great extent that supernatural look that characterised it on

my first visit; still, it was far from being the face of a man in robust

health. I thought him silent and reserved towards me, but when I told

him I had delivered his letter, and talked to him of his lady-love, he

brightened up a little. I told him I should take the stage on the morrow

to visit Edith.

He wanted me to take another letter, but I pleaded great hurry and

escaped from the house. When I saw Edith again, she also had improved in

health immensely, thanks to the careful watching of my friend's wife,

who was like a real mother to her, and would _not_ allow her to starve

herself. Seeing her so nearly recovered, I recommended a little change

of air as soon as convenient.

Upon my departure Edith managed to slip a _billet-doux_ into my hand,

directed to Charles; that is to say, without address, for I had not told

her where he lived. We were not left alone on this interview, the wife

of my friend being present all the while, so the note had to be passed

into my hand clandestinely. There was no getting out of it, and I had to

deliver it to Charles as soon as I arrived in town. His eyes sparkled

when he saw her writing.

"Look here, what Edith says about you!" said he, somewhat bitterly. He

read as follows:

"DEAREST CHARLES,--Your own true Edith writes to you in the flesh by our

common but well-meaning enemy, Dr. Bleedem."

"There!" he said, "that's what she thinks of you."

"Enemy!" I cried, in astonishment.

"Yes, enemy; but well-meaning, you see, she says," he continued, in a

softened tone.

He then continued to read:

"The poor man thinks, no doubt, that he has achieved a great thing in

bringing us privileged seers into the world of spirits back into this

mundane sphere, fit only for beings of his order. Of course, what else

could be expected of him? The nature of his profession, the grossness of

his being, compel him to think and act in the way of grovelling mortals;

but let us not be too hard upon him; he is a good man, and means well."

"There!" he observed, "you see, she is charitably disposed towards you.

I don't know that I feel disposed to be so lenient."

At this odd beginning of a love-letter, and still odder allusion to

myself, I fairly burst out laughing.

"Oh! laugh away," he said; "it is a fine triumph to rob two beings of

the very essence of their happiness."

I had not done laughing, and he was nearly catching the infection. He

observed in the words of his favourite poet, that, my lungs did crow

like chanticleer, and I did laugh _sans_ intermission.

He took up the letter again, and read a great portion to himself, or

half aloud. I caught the following passage:

"Do you remember, Charles, when, in the early days of our courtship, you

used nightly to serenade me under my window in the enchanted castle, and

how long it was before you knew that I, like yourself, had an earthly

body that had an existence of its own? And when I told you that my

parents--or rather, my adopted parents--were not in the land of spirits,

but that they inhabited the same world in which, in the daytime, we

ourselves were forced to vegetate; and when you thereupon asked me with

whom I shared the castle, do you remember the horror, the rage, and

indignation you felt when you heard that I was held captive within that

enchanted castle by a horrible wizard, who tortured me and tried all his

base arts to make me yield to his love? Oh! Charles, I often look back

to that time. I can see the bold outline of that rude, massive building

on a rock frowning on the lake below. I feel myself yet at my casement,

gazing out in search of your bark, which passed nightly close to my

window, and I fancy I hear your touch upon the lute reverberating

through the night air.

"With what horror I remember being torn from my window on that night by

my captor, as I was waving my handkerchief to you on the lake. Oh! the

torture I underwent within those unhallowed walls after you left me; the

scenes I was compelled to witness, the oaths I was forced to hear; and

then the infernal hideousness of the countenance of my demon captor!

"Oh! Charles, shall I ever forget the night on which you rode up to the

wizard's castle on a spirit charger, habited as a cavalier, and bearing

a ladder of ropes under your mantle which you reached up to me on the

point of your lance; how I descended, and you placed me behind you on

your steed and galloped away; how, ere we were far from the castle, my

flight was discovered, and the wizard and all his demon host mounted

their demon chargers and started in pursuit of us; how they gained on

us; how we avoided them for miles by hardly half-a-horse's length, until

we arrived at a bridge across a river of fire, over which none but the

pure in love can pass? Dost remember, Charles, how bravely thy spirit

charger bore us over in safety, and how, when the fell magician

endeavoured to follow us with his evil crew, how the bridge tumbled to

atoms, and the demon host was swallowed up in the fiery waves? Then how,

when our charger was spent, we turned him out to graze, the sun having

risen; and how, having arrived at the sea shore, we found a boat, which

we entered, and steered onward in search of further adventure. How

swiftly, how gallantly we sailed, as if borne on by the good spirits,

until we reached an island, where the inhabitants welcomed us and

claimed us as their king and queen. Charles! do you remember all this?

But why call up all these reminiscences? They are over now, and passed

as a dream, and this hence-forward must be our life. I know nothing of

your life in the flesh, my spirit lover, or what may be your social

position in this world. No matter, whatever it be, and in spite of

whatever obstacles may raise themselves to our happiness in this vale of

tears, remember that I am ever thine in the spirit,

"EDITH L----."

Having concluded, he folded up the letter, kissed it, and pressed it to

his heart.

"And do you remember all the details of that strange adventure alluded

to by Miss Edith, as having happened to you both? Do you remember really

having taken part in this strange romance in another phase of

existence?" I asked.

"Certainly I do," he replied; "every particular of it."

"Strange!" I muttered, to myself. "Then these _dreams_, as we ordinary

mortals would say, are really to such beings as yourself _facts_--phases

of another existence," I remarked.

"Precisely so," said he.

"Then your being king of an island was no mere phantasy," said I; "but

as much a fact----"

"As much a fact as that while in the flesh I am a poor devil," he

replied.

"Well, I never thought I should have a royal patient," I observed,

smiling.

"Ah!" he said, "now do you see the extent of the wrong that you have

done me? You have robbed me of a kingdom in bringing me back to health."

"Many a sick monarch would be glad to exchange his kingdom for good

health," I retorted.

This was almost my last visit to Charles. I _did_ call again, but it was

long after he had completely recovered.

Months passed away, when one day I casually met Charles in the streets.

He had quite recovered, and was looking very well. He had much to tell

me, so, as I had a little spare time on hand, we strolled into the park,

and being a hot day, we sat down together beneath the shade of a tree in

a solitary spot. He seemed to have grown more reconciled to humanity,

having now only a dim recollection of the intensity of the joys he used

to experience in his dreams. I touched upon the subject nearest his

heart, and he commenced a recital of all that had happened to him since

we last met. I shall endeavour to give his own words as nearly as

possible.

"You will remember, doctor," he began, "that you left me without giving

me the address of Miss L----" (Edith took the surname of my friend the

squire, as if she were his own daughter, her real name being unknown).

"I called upon you afterwards on purpose to inquire, and was informed

that you were out of town. I had no one now to apply to for information,

and was in despair. I did not know what to do with myself in town during

the summer, so I thought I would try a little country air. I loitered

about first in one country place, then in another, without any fixed

purpose. I had been reading Shakespeare one day, and upon closing the

book, I resolved I would take a pilgrimage to the birth place of the

great Swan of Avon.

"I had never yet visited this retreat, so I started at once, and

determined to put up in the village for some time. With what a thrill of

delight, awe, and enthusiasm I crossed the threshold of that humble

domicile! _His_ foot had once crossed that same spot! Here was the

window that _he_ used to look out of. The identical glass, too, all

carefully preserved by a network of wire. _His_ table and _his_ chair!

There was something magical to me in that low-roofed chamber, with its

old-fashioned beams.

"This, then, was the birthplace of that giant brain destined to illumine

the world with the rays of his genius! Who knows how many plays had been

conceived and worked out within those four walls? To me, the spot was

hallowed ground. _I_ could not inscribe my name on those sacred panels.

It seemed almost sacrilege for me to sit down in his chair, but I did

so; and begged to be left alone for a time, that I might meditate on the

life and genius of the greatest of poets.

"It was not without a feeling of regret that I tore myself away from

this hallowed shrine. I wandered through the almost deserted streets,

and read the names over the village shops. 'William Shakespeare' here

caught my eye; 'John Shakespeare' there; descendants, no doubt, of the

great poet. Shakespeare seemed a common name here. I wondered whether

any of them inherited his genius. No matter, it would be something to

say that one was descended from so great a man, without possessing any

further recommendation. I called upon a certain William Shakespeare, and

inquired into his pedigree. He seemed a very ordinary sort of personage.

He did not appear to know, nor yet to care much, if he were really

descended from the bard or no. There was no genius about _him_. I called

upon another, and then another, bearing the name of the poet, but could

not discover the slightest spark of the fire that kindled the soul of

the great dramatist in any one of them. I strolled on to the church, and

visited the tomb. A sensation of awe crept over me as I read the simple

couplet engraved over the vault containing the ashes of the bard:

Blessed be he who spares these stones,

And cursed be he who moves my bones.

"I shuddered to think of the awful consequences that might ensue to the

sacrilegious hand that should dare move his honoured dust. There was his

effigy placed within a niche in the wall of the church, high up above

the heads of the congregation, and gave the idea of being placed in a

sort of pulpit. The bust was but a rude work of art, but it had the

reputation of being the only authentic likeness of the poet; and,

therefore, it was with intense interest that I scanned the features. I

fancied that I could descry, in spite of the rude workmanship of the

stonemason, certain lines about the mouth and eyes that indicated that

droll humour displayed in his comedies. I stood rooted to the spot.

"Around me were the tombs of the Lucy family; close to the poet's own

dust the graves of his wife and daughter. But let me hasten to the more

important point in my narrative.

"After I left the church I was shown the dead of the Lucy family, and

obtained permission to wander over the grounds. 'In that house,' I said

to myself, 'lives the lineal descendant of that squire before whom the

bard was brought for poaching, and whom afterwards he is supposed to

have caricatured under the title of "Justice Shallow."'

"I wandered alone through the forest of Arden, and seemed to imbibe

inspiration from the surrounding scenery. I called up scenes from 'As

you like it,' and other plays. I sat down on the grass in a wooded spot,

and watched the deer.

"'Here,' I thought, to myself, 'must be the spot where the melancholy

Jacques moralised on the wounded deer. Yonder, perhaps, where he met the

fool in the forest.' I mused awhile, and then opened my Shakespeare at

the scene of Rosalind and Celia, followed by Touchstone, and became

deeply engrossed.

"I might have been half-an-hour poring over this scene, when I lifted my

eyes from my book and beheld coming towards me in the distance the slim

and graceful form of a lady, reading a book which was bound in the same

fashion as the book I was reading, and which, therefore, I concluded

must be a Shakespeare. She approached with her eyes still fixed on the

book. At length, as I gazed on her she closed the book, and her eyes met

mine.

"'Edith!' I cried, 'do I dream still, or is it indeed yourself in the

flesh?'

"She was no less surprised than myself.

"'Charles!' she exclaimed, 'how have you tracked me hither? Did you know

of----'

"'Tracked you, Edith!' I exclaimed. 'I knew nothing of your whereabouts.

This is the hand of Fate.'

"'Oh, Charles, is it possible!' she cried. 'To think that we should live

to meet in the flesh.'

"We embraced, and strolled under the trees together.

"'Shall I awake from this,' I kept saying to myself, 'and find it also a

dream?'

"We both of us began to doubt whether we were sleeping or waking. She

informed me that her adopted parents, for she was a foundling, as I

learnt, had taken her with them, away from home for the summer for

change of air; and, as she had often expressed a wish to visit the spot

where she had been first picked up by her present parents when a baby of

a week old, she begged Squire and Mrs. L---- to take her to

Stratford-on-Avon, a place of double interest to her.

"She invited me to her house, and introduced me to the squire and his

lady, who both remarked how much we resembled each other in feature. I

frequented the house much, and Edith and I were in the habit of taking

long walks together. It is hardly necessary to say that I was not

introduced as the young man Edith used to meet in her dreams. The tale

would have been too startling, and would not have been credited; and yet

Edith had been so entirely under the surveillance of her parents, that

it was impossible for her to have formed an acquaintance with anyone

without their knowledge, so I had to trump up some story--indeed, I

scarce know what--about rescuing her from a bull, just to account for

our acquaintance.

"We were left much alone. Little did the parents think what an old

attachment ours was; and for a long time I thought the squire looked

favourably on my suit, but when matters were advanced so far that I

demanded her in marriage, he drew up stiffly, and inquired into the

state of my finances. I boasted of my family, but was obliged to own

that as far as money-matters went, I was afraid that by my own fortune I

could hardly hope to keep his adopted daughter in that style to which

she had been accustomed.

"He hummed and hawed; but Edith broke in, begged and wept, saying she

had never loved before, and vowed that she never would love another. At

length the squire, with some reluctance, gave his consent, but said that

I must find something to get my own living, and I am consequently

looking out for some mercantile employment.

"'To such base uses must we come at last,'" he quoted, with a sigh.

"Yes," said I, "rather a come-down from a king; but, never mind what it

is, as long as it pays well."

I saw him wince at this speech of mine; his romantic nature revolted

against all thoughts of making money, however pressing his needs might

be.

We parted, and I called upon him about a week after, when I found he was

making grand preparations for his marriage. He informed me that he had

got his eye upon some appointment, but that he should have to wait.

There was a certain air of sadness about his face still. He did not look

like a man about to be married.

"Doctor," said he, "do you know what I have been thinking of late?"

"No," I replied.

"I have been thinking that this marriage of mine will never come off,"

he said.

"Why?" I asked. "Have you had some lovers' quarrel?"

"No," he replied.

"Why, then? Has the squire changed his mind, after having given his

consent?" I demanded.

"No; nor that either," he replied. "I cannot myself give you my reason

for the fancy--it is a presentiment. You know, 'the course of true love

never _did_ run smooth.'"

"Oh!" said I, soothingly, "that is your fancy; you are nervous and

impatient--it is natural."

"No, no!" he said; "I am sure of it--I feel it."

"What! Have you been dreaming that it would not?"

"No; I never dream now," he replied.

"I am glad to hear it," I observed; "it is a good sign. When does the

wedding take place?"

"To-morrow was the day appointed, but it won't take place, I say. Mark

my word."

"So soon! But what can have put it into your head that it will not take

place to-morrow? Do you know of any impediment likely to occur between

this and then?"

"No," he replied; "none for certain, but I tell you, once for all, it

will not take place."

I did not know exactly what to make of this strange monomania. My

suspicions were again aroused as to the brain being affected. I did not

see what could happen to hinder the marriage, so I left him, after

cheering him as much as I possibly could, determining within myself to

call upon him as soon after his marriage as was convenient, to triumph

over him and laugh at his presentiments; but this was the last time I

ever saw Charles.

Shortly after this, my last, visit I was glancing rapidly over the paper

at breakfast when I was shocked to see among the list of deaths the name

of Charles ----, aged twenty-four. Strange enough; I had been dreaming

of him much the night previous. What was my surprise and dismay when,

looking lower down the column, I saw also the death of Edith L----. I

looked at the date of both deaths. To my still further surprise, both

lovers had departed this life at exactly the same hour--at midnight,

October 12th, 17--.

"What a strange coincidence," I thought. "What strange beings both of

them were! They did not appear either to belong to or to be fitted for

this world. They were evidently never destined for an earthly lot

together."

"The hand of providence is in this," I muttered.

I grieved much for the loss of my two patients, for I had conceived

quite a fatherly affection for them both. As soon as decency would

permit, I called upon the parents of Charles. The account they gave of

the reason of his death caused me no little surprise. It appeared that

on the eve of his marriage his mother received a badly-written and

ill-spelt letter from a person who professed to have known the family a

long time, begging her to call upon the writer, who was then in a dying

state, and had an important communication to make.

Mrs. ----, curious to know who the writer could be, called at the

address given in the letter, which proved to be a miserable hovel in one

of the back slums of London. There, stretched upon a wretched pallet,

lay the squalid and emaciated form of an old woman, whom, after some

difficulty, Mrs. ---- recognised as the monthly nurse who attended her

four and twenty years ago, during her confinement.

"Who are you?" asked Mrs. ----.

"Look at me. Do you recollect me now?" inquired the hag.

"How should I? I never saw you before. Stay, your features seem to grow

more familiar to me, now my eyes get accustomed to the light. Is it

possible you can be Sarah Maclean, the midwife who----"

"The same," responded the hag.

"What would you of me?" inquired Mrs. ----.

"I have a communication to make before I die," said the old woman.

"Listen."

And she began her confession in feeble tones, thus:

"You were not aware, ma'am, that the day before your son was born, I

myself was confined with twins--a boy and a girl. Being called upon the

next day to attend upon you, I waited to see if your child were a male

child or a female. Finding that it was a man-child, I took advantage of

the agony I saw you were in, deeming that my act would never be

discovered. I managed to conceal my own child under my shawl, and so

contrived to substitute my child for your own."

"Wretch!" cried Mrs. ----, gasping.

"Stay; hear me out. I've got more to tell," continued the hag. "Your own

son died shortly after you had given him birth, through my neglect--I

admit it."

"Murderess!" screamed Mrs. ----.

"Bear with me yet awhile," said the midwife, "while I have still breath

left to confess all. I wished that one of my children should do well in

the world, and I adopted the stratagem I have just confessed to you.

"As for my other child, being a girl, I was anxious to get her off my

hands as soon as possible, so I left her at the foot of a tree near

Stratford-on-Avon, where I myself was born."

"What have I to do with all your other crimes, wicked woman?" exclaimed

Mrs. ----. "They rest between yourself and your Maker. Spare me further

confession."

"Stay awhile yet," said the old woman, in still feebler tones. "My

second crime concerns you perhaps in scarce a less degree than my first.

My daughter, as I heard afterwards, was picked up by a certain Squire

L----, and, having no children of his own, it is likely he will make her

his heiress."

"What!" cried Mrs. ----; "then Miss L----, who is engaged to my son--at

least to--to is, in fact, your--your daughter? Then they are twin

brother and sister!" and Mrs. ---- fell back in hysterics.

"Wretch! Infamous woman!" cried Mrs. ----, scarcely recovered from her

fit. But when she gazed again at the withered form before her, behold

the evil spirit had left its tenement. Sarah Maclean was no more.

When Mrs. ---- returned home, she communicated the mournful tidings to

Charles and Edith, who were together at the time--tidings which, of

course, put a stop to their union.

They both received the news in a state of stupefaction. Neither wept.

Their grief was too deeply seated to give vent to itself in tears. They

could not, after having loved each other as they had loved, look upon

each other in the light of brother and sister, and as their union was

impossible, they agreed that it would be better to part at once and for

ever. They embraced and parted, each vowing never to love again. That

night both were stricken with a violent fever, and on the night of

October 12th, at the midnight hour, the spirits of both lovers were

released from their mortal tenements. Let us hope that they are now at

rest!

* * * * *

Two years after the death of Charles and Edith, finding myself in the

neighbourhood of my old friend Squire L----, I called at the house. He

was glad to see me, as usual; but I thought he looked very much aged.

The death of his adopted daughter, whom he loved tenderly, had been a

great blow to him. I should not have liked to touch upon a subject so

painful, had he not broached the matter first himself, and asked me if I

had heard of the circumstances that led to the death of Edith and her

lover. I replied that I had heard all from Charles' mother.

"And who do you think that Edith and Charles turned out to be?" he

asked. "Why, lineal descendants of the great bard of Avon," he said.

"Is it indeed so?" said I.

"Yes," he replied; "after the death of my poor Edith I was curious to

know something about her real mother. I made inquiries into her

pedigree, and the report I heard from more than one quarter was--well,

it is a long story; and, at some future time, when we are not likely to

be interrupted, I may relate it to you. Suffice it to say, that the

descent of Charles and Edith may be distinctly traced from our great

Bard, William Shakespeare."

"Strange," I observed. "It is not impossible that some of the great

poet's genius might have run in the veins of Charles. He always

impressed me as a young man of great intellect. He might have been

something had he lived."

"Oh, yes," replied my friend; "I am certain of it. He was a very

promising young man; and there was Edith, as full of genius as she could

be, poor child. I tell you, doctor, it was marvellous what that girl had

in her."

"Oh, I believe it," I said. "There was something extremely intelligent

in her expression, if I may use the word; perhaps I ought to say,

intellectual and poetical. Well, genius, though seldom inherited from

father to son, rarely dies out of the family altogether, but often,

after lying dormant for generations, breaks out again in some form or

another, like certain diseases."

"Yes, doctor," said my friend; "I have observed the fact myself, and how

seldom do we find genius unaccompanied with disease. Do you know,

doctor, I often thank Heaven that I am no genius?"

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