reality? May not, at this moment, the story of Reva and Ismar,—of Reva the beautiful, the gifted, whose songs with their strange archaic melodies had in one short month reached the ears of a listening world,—of Ismar, so strangely familiar with the ways and lore of a long-forgotten past,—may not their story be the theme of sympathizing comment in the communings of many a loving pair,—have already taken its place as an item in the stock of romantic incident that forms, in every age, the favorite theme of poetry and art? While we are thus mourned, perhaps sung, in that world whence we so suddenly passed, may it not be that our spirits, for some fault or imperfection that rendered us unfit for the companionship of the comparatively pure spirits inhabiting that work,—may they not, I would think, have been relegated to this earlier and barbarous period, hence again to struggle upward to a higher plane?
So strong a hold have these fancies taken upon me, that at times I feel seriously alarmed, and heartily wish my friend had not taken me for the subject of his experiment. It is not only the confusing effect produced by the intercalation into my consciousness of a whole series of scenes and events, so lifelike as with difficulty to be distinguished from reality. By a sort of spiritual "transfusion of blood" I find myself permeated, as it were, with many of those peculiar notions of E's which I used most vigorously to combat. I can imagine the smile with which, in his distant exile, he will read of the march he stole on me when, in my helpless sleep, he inoculated me with his social and political heresies, which I must get rid of as soon as possible if I am to pursue my profession with any comfort or success.
