before him. He talked, and I listened
spell-bound. He talked till I believe he almost forgot
my presence, and only thought aloud. I had
never heard anything like it then; I have never
heard anything like it since. Familiar with all
systems of all philosophies, subtle in analysis,
bold in generalisation, he poured forth his
thoughts in an uninterrupted stream, and, still
leaning forward in the same moody attitude
with his eyes fixed upon the fire, wandered from
topic to topic, from speculation to speculation,
like an inspired dreamer. From practical science
to mental philosophy; from electricity in the
wire to electricity in the nerve; from Watts to
Mesmer, from Mesmer to Reichenbach, from
Reichenbach to Swedenborg, Spinoza, Condillac,
Descartes, Berkeley, Aristotle, Plato, and the
Magi and mystics of the East, were transitions
which, however bewildering in their variety and
scope, seemed easy and harmonious upon his
lips as sequences in music. By-and-by—I forget
now by what link of conjecture or illustration—
he passed on to that field which lies beyond the
boundary line of even conjectural philosophy,
and reaches no man knows whither. He spoke
of the soul and its aspirations; of the spirit
and its powers; of second sight; of prophecy;
of those phenomena which, under the names
of ghosts, spectres, and supernatural appearances,
have been denied by the sceptics and
attested by the credulous, of all ages.

"The world," he said, "grows hourly more
and more sceptical of all that lies beyond its
own narrow radius; and our men of science
foster the fatal tendency. They condemn as
fable all that resists experiment. They reject as
false all that cannot be brought to the test of
the laboratory or the dissecting-room. Against
what superstition have they waged so long and
obstinate a war, as against the belief in
apparitions? And yet what superstition has
maintained its hold upon the minds of men so
long and so firmly? Show me any fact in
physics, in history, in archaeology, which is
supported by testimony so wide and so various.
Attested by all races of men, in all ages, and in
all climates, by the soberest sages of antiquity,
by the rudest savage of to-day, by the Christian,
the Pagan, the Pantheist, the Materialist, this
phenomenon is treated as a nursery tale by the
philosophers of our century. Circumstantial
evidence weighs with them as a feather in the
balance. The comparison of causes with effects,
however valuable in physical science, is put
aside as worthless and unreliable. The evidence
of competent witnesses, however conclusive in
a court of justice, counts for nothing. He who
pauses befere he pronounces, is condemned as a
trifler. He who believes, is a dreamer or a fool."

He spoke with bitterness, and, having said
thus, relapsed for some minutes into silence.
Presently he raised his head from his hands, and
added, with an altered voice and manner,

"I, sir, paused, investigated, believed, and
was not ashamed to state my convictions to the
world. I, too, was branded as a visionary, held
up to ridicule by my contemporaries, and hooted
from that field of science in which I had laboured
with honour during all the best years of my life.
These things happened just three-and-twenty
years ago. Since then, I have lived as you see me
living now, and the world has forgotten me, as I
have forgotten the world. You have my history."

"It is a very sad one," I murmured, scarcely
knowing what to answer.

"It is a very common one," he replied. "I
have only suffered for the truth, as many a better
and wiser man has suffered before me."

He rose, as if desirous of ending the conversation,
and went over to the window.

"It has ceased snowing," he observed, as he
dropped the curtain, and came back to the fire-side.

"Ceased!" I exclaimed, starting eagerly to
my feet. "Oh, if it were only possible—but no!
it is hopeless. Even if I could find my way
across the moor, I could not walk twenty miles
to-night."

"Walk twenty miles to-night!" repeated my
host. "What are you thinking of?"

"Of my wife," I replied, impatiently. "Of
my young wife, who does not know that I have
lost my way, and who is at this moment breaking
her heart with suspense and terror."

"Where is she?"

"At Dwolding, twenty miles away."

"At Dwolding," he echoed, thoughtfully.
"Yes, the distance, it is true, is twenty miles;
but are you so very anxious to save the next
six or eight hours?"

"So very, very anxious, that I would give ten
guineas at this moment for a guide and a horse."

"Your wish can be gratified at a less costly
rate," said he, smiling. "The night mail from
the north, which changes horses at Dwolding,
passes within five miles of this spot, and will be
due at a certain cross-road in about an hour and
a quarter. If Jacob were to go with you across
the moor, and put you into the old coach-road,
you could find your way, I suppose, to where it
joins the new one?"

"Easily—gladly."

He smiled again, rang the bell, gave the old
servant his directions, and, taking a bottle of
whisky and a wine-glass from the cupboard in
which he kept his chemicals, said:

"The snow lies deep, and it will be difficult
walking to-night on the moor. A glass of
usquebaugh before you start?"

I would have declined the spirit, but he
pressed it on me, and I drank it. It went down
my throat like liquid flame, and almost took my
breath away.

"It is strong," he said; "but it will help to
keep out the cold. And now you have no
moments to spare. Good night!"

I thanked him for his hospitality, and would
have shaken hands, but that he had turned away
before I could finish my sentence. In another
minute I had traversed the hall, Jacob had
locked the outer door behind me, and we were
out on the wide white moor.

Although the wind had fallen, it was still
bitterly cold. Not a star glimmered in the
black vault overhead. Not a sound, save the
rapid crunching of the snow beneath our feet,