In spite of all the pride of reason and philosophy, a vague doubt will still lurk in the mind, and perhaps will never be perfectly eradicated; as it is concerning a matter that does not admit of positive demonstration.  Every thing connected with our spiritual nature is full of doubt and difficulty.  “We are fearfully and wonderfully made;” we are surrounded by mysteries, and we are mysteries even to ourselves.  Who yet has been able to comprehend and describe the nature of the soul, its connection with the body, or in what part of the frame it is situated?  We know merely that it does exist; but whence it came, and when it entered into us, and how it is retained, and where it is seated, and how it operates, are all matters of mere speculation, and contradictory theories.  If, then, we are thus ignorant of this spiritual essence, even while it forms a part of ourselves, and is continually present to our consciousness, how can we pretend to ascertain or to deny its powers and operations when released from its fleshy prison-house?  It is more the manner, therefore, in which this superstition has been degraded, than its intrinsic absurdity, that has brought it into contempt.  Raise it above the frivolous purposes to which it has been applied, strip it of the gloom and horror with which it has been surrounded, and there is none of the whole circle of visionary creeds that could more delightfully elevate the imagination, or more tenderly affect the heart.  It would become a sovereign comfort at the bed of death, soothing the bitter tear wrung from us by the agony of our mortal separation.  What could be more consoling than the idea, that the souls of those whom we once loved were permitted to return and watch over our welfare?—­that affectionate and guardian spirits sat by our pillows when we slept, keeping a vigil over our most helpless hours?—­that beauty and innocence which had languished into the tomb, yet smiled unseen around us, revealing themselves in those blest dreams wherein we live over again the hours of past endearment?  A belief of this kind would, I should think, be a new incentive to virtue; rendering us circumspect even in our most secret moments, from the idea that those we once loved and honoured were invisible witnesses of all our actions.

It would take away, too, from that loneliness and destitution which we are apt to feel more and more as we get on in our pilgrimage through the wilderness of this world, and find that those who set forward with us, lovingly and cheerily, on the journey, have, one by one, dropped away from our side.  Place the superstition in this light, and I confess I should like to be a believer in it.  I see nothing in it that is incompatible with the tender and merciful nature of our religion, nor revolting to the wishes and affections of the heart.

There are departed beings that I have loved as I never again shall love in this world;—­that have loved me as I never again shall be loved!  If such beings do ever retain in their blessed spheres the attachments which they felt on earth—­if they take an interest in the poor concerns of transient mortality, and are permitted to hold communion with those whom they have loved on earth, I feel as if now, at this deep hour of night, in this silence and solitude, I could receive their visitation with the most solemn, but unalloyed delight.