Mr. Stilton had a wife,—­one of those meek, amiable, simple-hearted women whose individuality seems to be completely absorbed into that of their husbands.  When such women are wedded to frank, tender, protecting men, their lives are truly blessed; but they are willing slaves to the domestic tyrant.  They bear uncomplainingly,—­many of them even without a thought of complaint,—­and die at last with their hearts full of love for the brutes who have trampled upon them.  Mrs. Stilton was perhaps forty years of age, of middle height, moderately plump in person, with light-brown hair, soft, inexpressive gray eyes, and a meek, helpless, imploring mouth.  Her voice was mild and plaintive, and its accents of anger (if she ever gave utterance to such) could not have been distinguished from those of grief.  She did not often attend our sessions, and it was evident, that, while she endeavored to comprehend the revelations, in order to please her husband, their import was very far beyond her comprehension.  She was now and then a little frightened at utterances which no doubt sounded lewd or profane to her ears; but after a glance at Mr. Stilton’s face, and finding that it betrayed neither horror nor surprise, would persuade herself that everything must be right.

“Are you sure,” she once timidly whispered to me, “are you very sure,
Mr. ------, that there is no danger of being led astray?  It seems
strange to me; but perhaps I don’t understand it.”

Her question was so indefinite, that I found it difficult to answer.  Stilton, however, seeing me engaged in endeavoring to make clear to her the glories of the new truth, exclaimed,—­

“That’s right, John!  Your spiritual plane slants through many spheres, and has points of contact with a great variety of souls.  I hope my wife will be able to see the light through you, since I appear to be too opaque for her to receive it from me.”

“Oh, Abijah!” said the poor woman, “you know it is my fault.  I try to follow, and I hope I have faith, though I don’t see everything as clearly as you do.”

I began also to have my own doubts, as I perceived that an “affinity” was gradually being developed between Stilton and Miss Fetters.  She was more and more frequently possessed by the spirit of Erasmus, whose salutations, on meeting and parting with his brother-philosopher, were too enthusiastic for merely masculine love.  But, whenever I hinted at the possibility of mistaking the impulses of the soul, or at evil resulting from a too sudden and universal liberation of the passions, Stilton always silenced me with his inevitable logic.  Having once accepted the premises, I could not avoid the conclusions.

“When our natures are in harmony with spirit-matter throughout the spheres,” he would say, “our impulses will always be in accordance.  Or, if there should be any temporary disturbance, arising from our necessary intercourse with the gross, blinded multitude, we can always fly to our spiritual monitors for counsel.  Will not they, the immortal souls of the ages past, who have guided us to a knowledge of the truth, assist us also in preserving it pure?”