‘From what I have said, you will readily perceive we were dreamers. My cousin was a dreamer--you would know it from the deep, full, swimming eye, without any body’s telling it you; and we were wont to go of a summer’s evening to the church yard, and seated on her mother’s grave, drink in from the silence, and darkness, and solitude of the scene, that witchery and madness which dreamers so much love. From such habits it will easily be seen, that our characters must soon be sobered over with the sad shapings of melancholy. Such habits cultivate this mood; and persisted in, the sensibilities if naturally exquisite, become so much the more so that they soon unfit us for every thing else, and win us from the laughter-making and foolish. ‘We were seated one evening as I have mentioned, and our thoughts very naturally turned upon spirits, their intercourse, and the laws which govern them, and the conversation took such a tone as fastened it forever in my memory. ‘I sometimes think,’ said she, clinging tenderly to me, and clasping my hand firmly in both of hers--‘that when we are free from this world, and disenthralled, are ushered into a new existence, we shall lose our identity, and have to find out new sympathies and sources of enjoyment; and the thought saddens me.’ ‘Why saddens you?’ ‘O! I would not forget this world. I would not forget its beauties--its rocks, woodlands, wilds, ‘Its human and its natural beauties all.’-- I would not forget them. They _must_ be a source of felicity ever--ever pleasant to be remembered--ever spots to which memory shall turn her saddened eye, when the heart is sick with its melancholies.’ ‘Fanny, think you the blessed weep?’ ‘O! I know not--‘but I could not bear to forget this beautiful world, and those I love in it.’ ‘Think you’--said I--‘that he who made the spirit and knows its capacities, will not find for it something more substantial than earth proffers us? You know the aged tell us, there’s no bliss here; and we see the young, and gay, and beautiful, fall around us like leaves in Autumn-time. What matters it then if we take other minds, as distinct as our own bodies?’ ‘Arthur! Arthur!--you pain me. Would you not know _me_ hereafter?’ ‘Doubt it not--we _shall_ know each other.’ ‘I would think so.’