cigars and some brandy-and-water. My
idea was that I should act upon my
material system, and by living for a while in
sensation apart from thought, send myself
forcibly, as it were, into a new groove.
I came up here to this drawing-room. I
sat just here. The monkey got upon a
small table that then stood there. It looked
dazed and languid. An irrepressible
uneasiness as to its movements kept my eyes
always upon it. Its eyes were half-closed,
but I could see them glow. It was looking
steadily at me. In all situations, at all
hours, it is awake and looking at me.
That never changes.

"I shall not continue in detail my
narrative of this particular night. I shall
describe, rather, the phenomena of the
first year, which never varied, collectively.
I shall describe the monkey as it appeared
in daylight. In the dark, as you shall
presently hear, there are peculiarities. It is
a small monkey, perfectly black. It had
only one peculiarity—a character of
malignity—unfathomable malignity. During
the first year it looked sullen and sick.
But this character of intense malice and
vigilance was always underlying that surly
languor. During all that time it acted as
if on a plan of giving me as little trouble
as was consistent with watching me. Its
eyes were never off me. I have never lost
sight of it, except in my sleep, light or
dark, day or night, since it came here,
excepting when it withdraws for some weeks
at a time, unaccountably.

"In total dark it is visible as in daylight.
I do not mean merely its eyes. It
is all visible distinctly in a halo that
resembles a glow of red embers, and which
accompanies it in all its movements.

"When it leaves me for a time, it is
always at night, in the dark, and in the
same way. It grows at first uneasy, and
then furious, and then advances towards me,
grinning and shaking its paws clenched,
and, at the same time, there comes the
appearance of fire in the grate. I never
have any fire. I can't sleep in the room
where there is any, and it draws nearer
and nearer to the chimney, quivering, it
seems, with rage, and when its fury rises to
the highest pitch, it springs into the grate,
and up the chimney, and I see it no more.

"When first this happened I thought I
was released. I was a new man. A day
passed—a night—and no return, and a
blessed week—a week—another week. I
was always on my knees, Dr. Hesselius,
always, thanking God and praying. A
whole month passed of liberty, but on a
sudden, it was with me again."

CHAPTER VIII. THE SECOND STAGE.

"IT was with me, and the malice which
before was torpid under a sullen exterior,
was now active. It was perfectly unchanged
in every other respect. This new energy
was apparent in its activity and its looks,
and soon in other ways.

"For a time, you will understand, the
change was shown only in an increased
vivacity, and an air of menace, as if it
was always brooding over some atrocious
plan. Its eyes, as before, were never off
me."

"Is it here now?" I asked.

"No," he replied, " it has been absent
exactly a fortnight and a day—fifteen days.
It has sometimes been away so long as
nearly two months, once for three. Its
absence always exceeds a fortnight, although
it may be but by a single day. Fifteen
days having past since I saw it last, it may
return now at any moment."

"Is its return," I asked, "accompanied
by any peculiar manifestation?"

"Nothing—no," he said. " It is simply
with me again. On lifting my eyes from a
book, or turning my head, I see it, as usual,
looking at me, and then it remains, as
before, for its appointed time. I have
never told so much and so minutely before
to any one."

I perceived that he was agitated, and
looking like death, and he repeatedly applied
his handkerchief to his forehead, and
I suggested that he might be tired, and
told him that I would call, with pleasure, in
the morning, but he said:

"No, if you don't mind hearing it all
now. I have got so far, and I should prefer
making one effort of it. When I spoke to
Dr. Harley, I had nothing like so much to
tell. You are a philosophic physician. You
give spirit its proper rank. If this thing is
real—"

He paused, looking at me with agitated
inquiry.

"We can discuss it by-and-by, and very
fully. I will give you all I think," I answered,
after an interval.

"Well—very well. If it is anything
real, I say, it is prevailing, little by little,
and drawing me more interiorly into hell.
Optic nerves, he talked of. Ah! well—
there are other nerves of communication.
May God Almighty help me! You shall
hear.

"Its power of action, I tell you, had