ssed to the
souls of all of them.

The medium was a thin, nervous-looking youth of about nineteen; but, as
Mr. Dempster assured Mr. Hogarth, was in every way to be trusted, as
his character was irreproachable, and of great sincerity and
simplicity. Francis was very incredulous as to the appearances being
caused by spiritual agency, and though he could give no satisfactory
explanation of the extraordinary movements of tables, easy chairs,
sofas, &c., he felt that these things were very undignified and absurd,
as every unbeliever always feels at first; but the eagerness of the
large party who were gathered together had something infectious in it.
Many of them had known severe bereavement--many of them had been tossed
on the dark sea of doubt and despondency--and the brief messages
communicated by raps, or by the voice of the medium, gave them
consolation and hope.

To Francis, the details communicated appeared to be meagre and
unsatisfactory. The spirits all said that they were happy, which to
some present was a fact of inestimable value, but to him it was a
matter of course. He never had believed, since he had thought out the
subject in early manhood, that God would continue existence if He did
not make it a blessing. But to others who, like many before him, had
intelligently accepted of a sterner theology, and who had been
struggling through years of chaotic doubts and fancies for footing on
which to rest, he saw that these assurances gave real strength and
support. An hour had passed amidst these manifestations--the interest
of the believers continued to be unflagging, but Francis felt a little
tired of it. He had lost no dear friend by death. The future world had
not the intense personal interest to him that it had to others. The
dearest beings in the world to him were his two cousins, and they were
divided from him by circumstances almost as cruel as the grave. How few
have done justice to the sad partings, the mournful alienations that
have been caused by circumstances! Bereavement in all its varied
bitterness has been sung by many poets in strains worthy of the
subject; but circumstances are so insidious, and often so prosaic, that
their tragical operation has been rarely treated of in verse.

His thoughts recurred, as they always did when he felt sad or serious,
to Jane Melville--to the will that had brought them together, and at
the same time so cruelly parted them--to the unknown father, whose own
life had b