uillity of noon.

"There is something in travel," said Gertrude, "which constantly, even
amidst the most retired spots, impresses us with the exuberance of life.
We come to those quiet nooks and find a race whose existence we never
dreamed of. In their humble path they know the same passions and tread
the same career as ourselves. The mountains shut them out from the great
world, but their village is a world in itself. And they know and heed no
more of the turbulent scenes of remote cities than our own planet of
the inhabitants of the distant stars. What then is death, but the
forgetfulness of some few hearts added to the general unconsciousness of
our existence that pervades the universe? The bubble breaks in the vast
desert of the air without a sound."

"Why talk of death?" said Trevylyan, with a writhing smile. "These sunny
scenes should not call forth such melancholy images."

"Melancholy," repeated Gertrude, mechanically. "Yes, death is indeed
melancholy when we are loved!"

They stayed a short time at Niederlahnstein, for Vane was anxious to
examine the minerals that the Lahn brings into the Rhine; and the sun
was waning towards its close as they renewed their voyage. As they
sailed slowly on, Gertrude said, "How like a dream is this sentiment
of existence, when, without labour or motion, every change of scene is
brought before us; and if I am with you, dearest, I do not feel it less
resembling a dream, for I have dreamed of you lately more than ever; and
dreams have become a part of my life itself."

"Speaking of dreams," said Trevylyan, as they pursued that mysterious
subject, "I once during my former residence in Germany fell in with a
singular enthusiast, who had taught himself what he termed 'A System of
Dreaming.' When he first spoke to me upon it I asked him to explain what
he meant, which he did somewhat in the following words."

CHAPTER XXIII. THE LIFE OF DREAMS.

"I WAS born," said he, "with many of the sentiments of the poet, but
without the language to express them; my feelings were constantly
chilled by the intercourse of the actual world. My family, mere Germans,
dull and unimpassioned, had nothing in common with me; nor did I out of
my family find those with whom I could better sympathize. I was revolted
by friendships,--for they were susceptible to every change; I was
disappointed in love,--for the truth never approached to my ideal.
Nursed early in the lap of Romance, enamoured of the w