In the depths of every heart there is a tomb and adungeon， though the lights， the music， and revelry abovemay cause us to forget their existence， and the buriedones， or prisoners whom they hide. But sometimes， andoftenest at midnight， these dark receptacles are flung wideopen. In an hour like this， when the mind has a passivesensibility， but no active strength； when the imaginationis a mirror， imparting vividness to all ideas， without thepower of selecting or controlling them； then pray thatyour griefs may slumber， and the brotherhood of remorsenot break their chain. It is too late！ A funeral train comesgliding by your bed， in which Passion and Feeling assumebodily shape， and things of the mind become dire spectresto the eye. There is your earliest Sorrow， a pale youngmourner， wearing a sister’s likeness to first love， sadlybeautiful， with a hallowed sweetness in her melancholyfeatures， and grace in the flow of her sable robe. Nextappears a shade of ruined loveliness， with dust among hergolden hair， and her bright garments all faded and defaced，stealing from your glance with drooping head， as fearful ofreproach； she was your fondest Hope， but a delusive one；so call her Disappointment now. A sterner form succeeds，with a brow of wrinkles， a look and gesture of ironauthority； there is no name for him unless it be Fatality，an emblem of the evil influence that rules your fortunes；a demon to whom you subjected yourself by some errorat the outset of life， and were bound his slave forever， byonce obeying him. See！ those fiendish lineaments gravenon the darkness， the writhed lip of scorn， the mockery ofthat living eye， the pointed finger， touching the sore placein your heart！ Do you remember any act of enormous folly，at which you would blush， even in the remotest cavern ofthe earth？ Then recognize your Shame.
Pass， wretched band！ Well for the wakeful one， if，riotously miserable， a fiercer tribe do not surround him，the devils of a guilty heart， that holds its hell withinitself. What if Remorse should assume the features of aninjured friend？ What if the fiend should come in woman’sgarments， with a pale beauty amid sin and desolation， andlie down by your side？ What if he should stand at yourbed’s foot， in the likeness of a corpse， with a bloody stainupon the shroud？ Sufficient without such guilt is thisnightmare of the soul； this heavy， heavy sinking of thespirits； this wintry gloom about the heart； this indistincthorror of the mind， blending itself with the darkness ofthe chamber.
By a desperate effort， you start upright， breaking froma sort of conscious sleep， and gazing wildly round thebed， as if the fiends were anywhere but in your hauntedmind. At the same moment， the slumbering embers onthe hearth send forth a gleam which palely illuminates thewhole outer room， and flickers through the door of thebedchamber， but cannot quite dispel its obscurity. Youreye searches for whatever may remind you of the livingworld. With eager minuteness， you take note of the tablenear the fireplace， the book with an ivory knife betweenits leaves， the unfolded letter， the hat， and the fallen glove.
Soon the flame vanishes， and with it the whole scene isgone， though its image remains an instant in your mind’seye， when darkness has swallowed the reality. Throughoutthe chamber， there is the same obscurity as before， butnot the same gloom within your breast. As your headfalls back upon the pillow， you think—in a whisper be itspoken—how pleasant in these night solitudes would bethe rise and fall of a softer breathing than your own， theslight pressure of a tenderer bosom， the quiet throb of apurer heart， imparting its peacefulness to your troubledone， as if the fond sleeper were involving you in her dream.
Her influence is over you， though she have no existencebut in that momentary image. You sink down in a floweryspot， on the borders of sleep and wakefulness， while yourthoughts rise before you in pictures， all disconnected， yetall assimilated by a pervading gladsomeness and beauty.
The wheeling of gorgeous squadrons， that glitter in thesun， is succeeded by the merriment of children round thedoor of a school-house， beneath the glimmering shadowof old trees， at the corner of a rustic lane. You stand inthe sunny rain of a summer shower， and wander amongthe sunny trees of an autumnal wood， and look upward atthe brightest of all rainbows， overarching the unbrokensheet of snow， on the American side of Niagara. Your mindstruggles pleasantly between the dancing radiance roundthe hearth of a young man and his recent bride， and thetwittering flight of birds in spring， about their new-madenest. You feel the merry bounding of a ship before thebreeze； and watch the tuneful feet of rosy girls， as theytwine their last and merriest dance in a splendid ballroom；and find yourself in the brilliant circle of a crowdedtheatre， as the curtain falls over a light and airy scene.
With an involuntar y start， you seize hold onconsciousness， and prove yourself but half awake， byrunning a doubtful parallel between human life and thehour which has now elapsed. In both you emerge frommystery， pass through a vicissitude that you can butimperfectly control， and are borne onward to anothermystery. Now comes the peal of the distant clock， withfainter and fainter strokes as you plunge further into thewilderness of sleep. It is the knell of a temporary death.
Your spirit has departed， and strays like a free citizen，among the people of a shadowy world， beholding strangesights， yet without wonder or dismay. So calm， perhaps，will be the final change； so undisturbed， as if amongfamiliar things， the entrance of the soul to its Eternalhome！
