It would seem that there is almost a contradiction in terms under the philosophy that admits the existence of a world of spirits, and yet denies that there can be any means of communication between that world and the spirits still clothed in flesh; but, even in the most sceptical, there are misdoubtings of their own unbelief; and to every one who thinks, there come moments when there arise such questions as these: Where lies the barrier between us and those above us--between us and those who have gone before? Can we speak across the gulf? Is it bridged over by any path? Is there a gulf indeed?--or, in this instance, as in all others through the universal scheme, is the partition but thin and incomplete that separates us from the order next above? Such are at least questions with all but the most purely worldly even in a most purely worldly age; but, in the times I write of, doubts on such subjects were precluded by faith and by tradition. Activity, indeed, and thought, occupied continually by matters the least spiritual, banished reflections upon such subjects during the great part of each man's time. But reflection was needless where conviction was ever present; and if speculation indulged itself in times of solitude and silence, it was only in regard to what our relations could be with the immaterial world, not whether there were any relations at all. Everything was still and motionless as the grave when Ferdinand descended slowly from his chamber in the castle of Ehrenstein, and entered the broad corridor which stretched across the great mass of the building. It was very dark, for no moon was up; and, though the stars were bright and many in the sky, the light they afforded through the dim casements was but small. The night was still, too; for no wind moved the trees; not a cloud crossed the sky; and, as it was colder than it had been, the insects ceased for a time from their activity, too early begun, and the song of the minstrel of the night was not heard. Everyone in the castle itself seemed sound asleep; no doors creaked on the hinges, no voice of guest or serving-man was heard from below, the very sentinel was keeping guard still and silently, like the starry watchers in the sky overhead. Ferdinand's heart beat quick, but it was not with the thought of all the strange and fearful sights he had seen in the place which he was now about to revisit--though he did think of them; it was not with that vague mysterious awe inspired by any near approach in mind to things beyond this world of warm and sunny life. He was going, for the first time, at night and in darkness, to the chamber of her he loved, to guide her through strange scenes, alone and unwatched for many an hour to come, upon an errand of which he knew nothing but that it was promised a happy end; and his whole frame thrilled with the emotions so sweet, so joyful, that are only known to early, pure, and ardent love.