have an opportunity of
disburdening his mind."

"The truth is," said Cyprian, "that your discussion on mesmerism
seemed, to me, tedious and wearisome; and, if you like, I will read you
a Serapiontic tale which was suggested to me by Wagenseil's 'Chronicles
of Nuernberg.' Remember, that my object was not to write a critical,
antiquarian treatise on the celebrated Contest on the Wartburg; I have
merely, according to my wont, related the circumstances just as they
arose before my mental vision."

He read:--

"'THE SINGERS' CONTEST.

"'At the season when spring and winter are bidding each other
farewell--on the night of the Equinox--a reader sat in a lonely chamber
with Johann Christoph Wagenseil's work on the glorious craft of the
Master Singers open before him. The storm, raging and roaring without,
was clearing up the fields, dashing the heavy rain-drops against the
windows, and whistling and howling the winter's wild adieu through the
chimneys of the houses; whilst the beams of the full moon were dancing
and playing like pallid spectres up and down on the wall. But the
reader took no note of all this. He closed the book, and gazed, deep in
thought, into the fire which was crackling on the hearth, given over
wholly to contemplation of the magic forms of long-past times, which
his book had evoked for him. It was as if some invisible being laid
down veil after veil upon his head, so that the objects around him
floated far away into thicker and thicker mists. The raging of the
storm and the crackling of the fire turned to gentle, harmonious
murmuring whispers, and a voice within him said,

"'"This is the dream, whose wings murmur so softly up and down, as it
lays itself on man's breast like a loving child, awaking with a sweet
kiss the inner sight--so that it beholds the beauteous forms of a
higher life, which is all splendour and glory."

"'A dazzling radiance burst forth like lightning-flash, and the veiled
dreamer opened his eyes. But no veil--no mist cloud--now obscured his
sight. He was lying on beds of flowers in the twilight dimness of a
thick, beautiful forest. The brooks were murmuring, the thickets
rustling, like the secret talk of lovers; and between whiles a
nightingale complained in sweetest pain. The morning breeze awoke,
and--rolling the clouds away--made straight the pathway of the glorious
sunshine; and soon the sunlight gleamed upon all the green, green
leaves, waki