FASCINATION.
"Dreams resemble the foam on the wave which passes away and vanishes," said old baron H, stretching out his arm to ring for his valet de chambre Kaspar. For the hour for retiring had long since sounded; the autumn wind blew with violence, and Maria, a beautiful young girl, wrapped up in an immense shawl, struggled to keep awake. A little farther on stood Ottmar, the baron's son, a brave student, whose brain philosophized concerning everything,
"Father," said the young man, "how can you think that dreams are not mysterious events which place us in relation with the invisible world?" "My friend," answered the baron, "I am of the opinion of the materialists who see nothing but what is very natural in those pretended mysteries of nature, of which our imagination is the sole cause."
"But," observed Maria, the beautiful girl, "may it not be that dreams, which you speak so slightingly of, are the result of the fermentation which takes place in the brain, and which disengages during the hours of slumber our vital spirits from the prison of the senses, to lead them to soar in regions neither bounded by time nor space?"
"My dear girl," replied the baron, "I think I hear, in listening to you, the emphatic incoherences of our friend Alban. Thou knowest, besides, my incredulity regarding all the systems improvised by the visionaries of the present day.—Dreams are the fruits of the over excitation of our organs,
