perfect bliss which might be alien from it. Alas! I had not wet known
that weariness by which the soul proves itself ethereal."

Turning over the old journal, I open, by chance, upon a passage which
affords a signal instance of the morbid fancies to which Oberon
frequently yielded himself. Dreams like the following were probably
engendered by the deep gloom sometimes thrown over his mind by his
reflections on death.

"I dreamed that one bright forenoon I was walking through Broadway, and
seeking to cheer myself with the warm and busy life of that far-famed
promenade. Here a coach thundered over the pavement, and there an
unwieldy omnibus, with spruce gigs rattling past, and horsemen prancing
through all the bustle. On the sidewalk people were looking at the rich
display of goods, the plate and jewelry, or the latest caricature ill
the bookseller's windows; while fair ladies and whiskered gentlemen
tripped gayly along, nodding mutual recognitions, or shrinking from some
rough countryman or sturdy laborer whose contact might have ruffled
their finery. I found myself in this animated scene, with a dim and
misty idea that it was not my proper place, or that I had ventured into
the crowd with some singularity of dress or aspect which made me
ridiculous. Walking in the sunshine, I was yet cold as death. By
degrees, too, I perceived myself the object of universal attention, and,
as it seemed, of horror and affright. Every face grew pale; the laugh
was hushed, and the voices died away in broken syllables; the people in
the shops crowded to the doors with a ghastly stare, and the passengers
oil all sides fled as from an embodied pestilence. The horses reared
and snorted. An old beggar-woman sat before St. Paul's Church, with her
withered palm stretched out to all, but drew it back from me, and
pointed to the graves and monuments in that populous churchyard. Three