“There is something in travel,” said Gertrude, “which constantly, even amidst the most retired spots, impresses us with the exuberance of life. We come to those quiet nooks and find a race whose existence we never dreamed of. In their humble path they know the same passions and tread the same career as ourselves. The mountains shut them out from the great world, but their village is a world in itself. And they know and heed no more of the turbulent scenes of remote cities than our own planet of the inhabitants of the distant stars. What then is death, but the forgetfulness of some few hearts added to the general unconsciousness of our existence that pervades the universe? The bubble breaks in the vast desert of the air without a sound.” “Why talk of death?” said Trevylyan, with a writhing smile. “These sunny scenes should not call forth such melancholy images.” “Melancholy,” repeated Gertrude, mechanically. “Yes, death is indeed melancholy when we are loved!” They stayed a short time at Niederlahnstein, for Vane was anxious to examine the minerals that the Lahn brings into the Rhine; and the sun was waning towards its close as they renewed their voyage. As they sailed slowly on, Gertrude said, “How like a dream is this sentiment of existence, when, without labour or motion, every change of scene is brought before us; and if I am with you, dearest, I do not feel it less resembling a dream, for I have dreamed of you lately more than ever; and dreams have become a part of my life itself.” “Speaking of dreams,” said Trevylyan, as they pursued that mysterious subject, “I once during my former residence in Germany fell in with a singular enthusiast, who had taught himself what he termed ‘A System of Dreaming.’ When he first spoke to me upon it I asked him to explain what he meant, which he did somewhat in the following words.” CHAPTER XXIII. THE LIFE OF DREAMS.