A Romance of Two Worlds | Page 5

in angels--the nineteenth century protests
against the possibility of their existence. It sees no miracle--it
pooh-poohs the very enthusiasm that might work them.
"Give a positive sign," it says; "prove clearly that what you say is true,
and I, in spite of my Progress and Atom Theory, will believe." The
answer to such a request was spoken eighteen hundred years and more
ago. "A faithless and perverse generation asketh for a sign, and no sign
shall be given unto them."
Were I now to assert that a sign had been given to ME--to me, as one
out of the thousands who demand it--such daring assurance on my part
would meet with the most strenuous opposition from all who peruse the
following pages; each person who reads having his own ideas on all
subjects, and naturally considering them to be the best if not the only
ideas worth anything. Therefore I wish it to be plainly understood that
in this book I personally advocate no new theory of either religion or
philosophy; nor do I hold myself answerable for the opinions expressed
by any of my characters. My aim throughout is to let facts speak for
themselves. If they seem strange, unreal, even impossible, I can only
say that the things of the invisible world must always appear so to those
whose thoughts and desires are centred on this life only.

CHAPTER I.
AN ARTIST'S STUDIO.
In the winter of 188--, I was afflicted by a series of nervous ailments,
brought on by overwork and overworry. Chief among these was a
protracted and terrible insomnia, accompanied by the utmost
depression of spirits and anxiety of mind. I became filled with the
gloomiest anticipations of evil; and my system was strung up by slow
degrees to such a high tension of physical and mental excitement, that
the quietest and most soothing of friendly voices had no other effect
upon me than to jar and irritate. Work was impossible; music, my one
passion, intolerable; books became wearisome to my sight; and even a
short walk in the open air brought with it such lassitude and exhaustion,
that I soon grew to dislike the very thought of moving out of doors. In
such a condition of health, medical aid became necessary; and a skilful
and amiable physician, Dr. R----, of great repute in nervous ailments,
attended me for many weeks, with but slight success. He was not to
blame, poor man, for his failure to effect a cure. He had only one way
of treatment, and he applied it to all his patients with more or less
happy results. Some died, some recovered; it was a lottery on which my
medical friend staked his reputation, and won. The patients who died
were never heard of more- -those who recovered sang the praises of
their physician everywhere, and sent him gifts of silver plate and
hampers of wine, to testify their gratitude. His popularity was very
great; his skill considered marvellous; and his inability to do ME any
good arose, I must perforce imagine, out of some defect or hidden
obstinacy in my constitution, which was to him a new experience, and
for which he was unprepared. Poor Dr. R----! How many bottles of
your tastily prepared and expensive medicines have I not swallowed, in
blind confidence and blinder ignorance of the offences I thus
committed against all the principles of that Nature within me, which, if
left to itself, always heroically struggles to recover its own proper
balance and effect its own cure; but which, if subjected to the
experimental tests of various poisons or drugs, often loses strength in
the unnatural contest and sinks exhausted, perhaps never to rise with
actual vigour again. Baffled in his attempts to remedy my ailments, Dr,

R----at last resorted to the usual plan adopted by all physicians when
their medicines have no power. He recommended change of air and
scene, and urged my leaving London, then dark with the fogs of a
dreary winter, for the gaiety and sunshine and roses of the Riviera. The
idea was not unpleasant to me, and I determined to take the advice
proffered. Hearing of my intention, some American friends of mine,
Colonel Everard and his charming young wife, decided to accompany
me, sharing with me the expenses of the journey and hotel
accommodation. We left London all together on a damp foggy evening,
when the cold was so intense that it seemed to bite the flesh like the
sharp teeth of an animal, and after two days' rapid journey, during
which I felt my spirits gradually rising, and my gloomy forebodings
vanishing slowly one by one, we arrived at Cannes, and put up at the
Hotel de L----. It was a lovely place, and most beautifully situated; the
garden was a perfect