If the will of the patient is not sufficiently strong, then the will of some good friend must be used. These good friends are known as healing mediums. Also a change of air and scene should be obtained, which brings the will into a new action, and thus dislodges the tenant. The will is like a sharp two-edged sword, which cuts right and left, and leaves no chance for skulking to anything to which it has directed its power. I will close my remarks by repeating that the savage is right in his belief, and that disease is indeed the result of--I might call them spiritual harpies, who, though they may not in these civilized times be driven out by the beating of drums, the tom-tom, and the howling of frenzied savages, yet can be dislodged by kindred manipulations, such as mesmeric passes, deep breathing, and a positive though almost quiet exercise of the will. Some of my brethren of the profession will be surprised to find these views advanced by one whom they believe held more rational opinions on earth; but there are others whose keen intellects have pierced through the wisdom of the schools, and have discovered that the physics they have concocted, when applied to the complex mechanism of the human system, in palliating the disorders of one function disarrange some half a dozen others, and that the soul and the body are so interblended that we must heal a disease of the body through and in conjunction with the spirit, its counterpart. ADELAIDE PROCTER. _THE SPIRIT BRIDE_. You told me you loved me, and vowed of old, When you reached that land of jasper and gold, To me you’d return in the hush of night, And show me a glimpse of your land of light. I sit in the shadows, and wearily wait To see you throw open the starry gate: Through my golden ringlets the chill winds blow, While I watch your coming through falling snow. How long must I wait? Are you ling’ring where The blue-eyed angels your sweet kisses share? Is your home so radiant that never more Your steps will be heard at my lowly door? Ah! what do I see through my blinding tears?--What misty form through the tempest appears? A cold hand now touches my burning brow, A low voice whispers, “I am near thee now.” Bend low--let me kiss thee, thou viewless thing; No rising passion thy cold lips bring; But hushed is the throb of my burning heart As upward he bears me--no more to part. THE END.