ETIDORHPA

TttEENDOFEARTH

^J.

rHE-MAN-WHO-DlD-IT

DUKE UNIVERSITY

LIBRARY

The Glenn Negley Collection of Utopian Literature

To THE Subscribers of Etidorhpa.

U'hilk men of classical education may freely cull from scientific fields in order to embellish a romance or establish a plot, the open question remains as to whether students of science have, in return, a right to intrude upon their possessions in order pleasantly to carry science speculation beyond the realms of dry science provings. Whether a romance (for to many " Etidorhpa" will be altogether such) may properly be introduced by one who is bound to the science side of thought, or whether such works must be left for the warmer pulse of the man of letters, is perhaps as yet unde- termined. Recognizing these problems, it was not without hesitation that the under- signed concerned himself in a subject apparently so far from his usual field of activity as in some phases of Etidorhpa ; and for seven years the manuscript has rested in his possession, known only to a few close friends.

Questions as to the nature of Etidorhpa have been so numerous since the an- nouncement of the work, that the limited time at the disposal of the undersigned has prevented personal replies. " Who, what is • Etidorhpa?" Whose faces are those printed in the vaguely-worded preface ? Who is, or was, Ivlewellyn Drury ? To what do the references to the antiquarian library refer?" etc. Never before has the writer neg- lected to answer correspondence ; but in this case, much to his regret, it was found impracticable, impossible to reply. However, the nature of the communications indi- cates that the book will answer most questions, although others may then arise not less mysterious than are those suggested by the weird preface and table of contents, which seem to have proven entertaining, at least, to many recipients.

That the subscribers to "Etidorhpa" have, since its announcement, been im- patiently looking for the book, is shown by the letters of inquiry alluded to, as well as others concerning certain features of the work, which the querists will generally find answered in this volume.

While no person could be more anxious to receive the volume than was the under- signed to issue the book, no pains were spared to make it artistically, and, in work- manship, all that could be desired, even at the risk of some delay, while a further de- lay resulted from the international copyright laws.

Originally, as announced, the intention was to print five hundred copies of "Eti- dorhpa," and it was in the nature of a pleasant .surprise to find that more than twice that number of subscribers applied quickly for the issue. Not less gratifying to the writer of these lines were the hundreds of pleasant letters of a personal nature that he had no valid reason to anticipate.

The writer of this page can not therefore but feel grateful for the unexpected en- couragement extended this literary effort, and herein expresses his personal thanks to the writers of the many kind letters of encouragement, trusting that " Etidorhpa" will meet the expectations of each recipient. That the reading of " Etidorhpa " may tend to elevate the mind, open up lines of pleasant thought, and lead none to regard less earnestly their science or love less deeply their God, is his sincere desire. Maj' the conception of this fair " Etidorhpa " introduce itself as gracefull}-, and in return be as pleasing to them as their kind words have been to him !

The prospectus announcing the work " Etidorhpa " was distributed to a selected list of recipients, mostly professional, and none were sent promiscuously. Opinions concerning any subject embraced in the book, even though expressed in but a line, and whether complimentary or the reverse, will be appreciated.

As soon as possible, then, after the book is read, please oblige the undersigned by giving him your impressions concerning any phase of the subject matter that may ap- peal to sympathy, excite curiosity, or be a matter of adverse criticism.

Respectfully,

JOHN URl LLOYD.

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from Duke University Libraries

http://www.archive.org/details/etidorhpaorendOOIIoy

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

The composition of this publication is by the Standard Publishing Company, Cincinnati ; the electrotyping by Winkelman & Burbank, Cincinnati ; the exquisite presswork and binding by Cranston & Curts, Cincinnati ; the photogravure of Etidorhpa by Rombach & Groene, Cincinnati ; and the half-tone engravings and frontispiece by the Photo- electrotype Engraving Company, New York City.

The production of this admirable volume is due to the patience, skill, and care exercised by these parties, to whom, on behalf of the recipients and himself, the undersigned hereby extends grateful acknowl- edgments. JOHN URl LLOYD.

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ETIDORHPA

THE END OF EARTH.

HE STRANGE HISTORY OF A MYSTERIOUS BEING

The Account of a Remarkable Journey

AS COjMMUNICATED IN MANUSCRIPT TO

LLKWELIvYN DRURY

WHO PROMISED TO PRINT THE SAME, HUT FINALLY EVADEIJ THE RESPONSIBILITY

WHICH WAS ASSl'MEn BV

JOHN URI LLOVD

WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BV

J. v\UOUSTUS IvNA^r^P

AUTHORS EDITION. LIMITED

CoPYRK.HTEn, 1S95, •^^■'^ Prr.i.isHEn by John Uri Li.oyd

CINClNNAll

ASCRIPTION

To Prof. W. H. Veuable, who reviewed the manuscript of this work, 1 am indebted for many valuable suggestions, and I can not speak too kindly of him as a critic.

The illustrations, excepting those mechanical and historical, mak- ing in themselves a beautiful narrative without words, are due to the admirable artistic conceptions and touch of ]\Ir. J. Augustus Knapp.

Structural imperfections as well as word selections and phrases that break all rules in composition, and that the care even of Prof Venable could not eradicate, I accept as wholly my own. For much, on the one hand, that it may seem should have been excluded, and on the other, for giving place to ideas nearer to empiricism than to science, I am also responsible. For vexing my frien<ls with problems that seemingly do not concern in the least men in my position, and for venturing to think, superficially, it may be, outside the restricted lines of a science bound to the unresponsive crucible and retort, to which my life has been given, and amid the problems of which it has nearly worn itself away, I have no plausible excuse, and shall seek none.

JOHN URI IJ.OYD.

PREPACE

OOKS arc as tombstones made by the living for the living, but destined soon only to remind us of the dead. The preface, like an epitaph, seems vainly to " im- plore the passing tribute" of a moment's interest. No man is alhircd l)y either a gra\-e-inscrip- tion or a preface, unless it be accom])anied by that ineffable cluinn \vhicli age casts over mor- tal productions. Libraries, in one sense, represent cemeteries, and the rows of silent volumes, with their dim titles, suggest burial tablets, many of which, alas! mark only cenotaphs — empty tombs. A modern book, no matter how talented the author, carries with it a

PREFACE.

familiar personality which may often be treated with neglect (jr even contempt, bnt a volume a centnry old demands some reverence ; a \ellum-l)ound or hog-skin print, or antique )ellow parchment, tw(^ three, five hundred years old, regardless of its contents, impresses one with an indescribable feeling akin to awe and veneration, — as does the wheat from an Hg)-ptian tomb, even

though it be only wheat. We take such a work from the shelf carefully, and replace it gentK'. While the productions of mod- ern writers are handled familiarly, as men living jostle men yet ali\'e ; those of authors long dead are touched as tho' clutched by a hand from the unseen world ; the reader feels that a phantom form opposes his own, and that spectral eyes scan the pages as he turns them.

The stern face, the penetrating eye of the personage whose likeness forms the frontispiece of the yellowed volume in m>- hand, speak across the gulf of two centuries, and bid me beware. The title page is read with rever- ence, and the great tome is replaced with care, for an almost superstitious sensation l)ids me be cautious and not offend. Let those who presume to criticise the intellectual productions of such men be careful; in a few da\s the dead will face their censors — dead.

Standing in a library of antiquated works, one senses the shadows of a cemetery. Each volume adds to the oppression, each old tome casts the influence of its spirit over the beholder, for have not these old books spirits? The earth-grave covers the mind as well as the body of its moldering occupant, and while

" THE STERX FACK,

ACROSS THE GULF.

PREFACR.

only a stroncr im- agination can as- sume that a spirit

h()\-ers over and lingers around in- animate clay, here each title is a voice that speaks as though the heart %^ of its creator still throbbed, the mind essence of the dead writer en\-el- ops the li\ing reader. Take down f'l that \-elluni-bound \()lunie, — it was written in one of the centuries long past. The pleasant face of its creator, as fresh as if but a \n\ni of \-esterday, smiles upon )'ou from the exquis- itely engraved cop- per-plate frontispiece ; the mind of the author rises from out the words before you. This man is not dead and his comrades live. Turn to the sIkUcs about, before each b(j(jk stands a guardian spirit, — together the\- form a phantom arm\- that, iiu'isible to mortals, encircles the beholder.

Ah ! this antique library is not as is a cluirch graveyard, onl\- a cemeteiy for the dead ; it is also a mansion for the living. These alcoves are trysting places for elemental shades. Ivs.scnccs of di.s- enthralled minds meet here and revel. Tlumglits of the pa.st take shape and live in this atmosphere, — who can .say that pulsatioii.s nnperceived, beyond the reach of physics or of chemistry, are not as ethereal mind-seeds whicli, although unseen, yet, in living brain, e.\])osed to such an atmosi)here as this, formulate embryotic

" Till-; I'Ll-,Af.A.\ 1 1A(.1-. ul- 1 In V-KKATOK

h.MII.I,.-. I I1>N V>

PREFACE.

thoiij^lit-cxpressions dcs- lincd to become ener- getic intellectual forces? I sit in such a weird li- brar)' and meditate. The shades of grim authors whisper in my ear, skel- eton forms oppose my own, and phantoms pos- sess the gloomy alcoves of the library I am building.

With the object of carrying to the future a section of thought cur- rent from the past, the antiquarian libraries of many nations have been culled, and purchases made in every- book market of the world. These books surround me. Naturalh' many persons have become interested in the movement, and, considering it a worthy one, unite to further the project, for the purpose is not personal gain. Thus it is not imusual for boxes of old chemical or phar- niacal volumes to arrive by freight or express, without a word as to the donor. The mail brings manuscripts unprinted, and pamphlets recondite, with no word of introduction. They come unheralded. The authors or the senders realize that in this unique library a l)lace is vacant if any work on connected subjects is missing, and thinking men of the world are uniting their contributions to fill such vacancies.

jl'POSE MY (J\\

Enough has been said concerning the ancient librar\- that has bred these reflections, and my own personalit)' does not concern the reader. He can now fonnulate his conclusions as well perhaps as I, regarding the origin of the manuscript that is to follow, if he concerns himself at all over subjects mysterious or historical, and

rRi;i"Aci;. vii.

Ill}- coniicction therewith is of minor ini])ortance. Whether Mr. Driiry brought the strange pa])er in ])erson, or sent it by express or mail, or whether it was slipped into a box of Ijooks from foreign lands, — wdicther I stood face to face with Mr. Drnry in the shadows of this room, or have but a fanciful conception of his figure, — whether the artist drew upon his imagination for the vivid likene.s.s of the several personages figured in the book that follows, or from reliable data has gi\-en fac-similes authentic, — is immaterial. vSufficient l)e it to say that the niainiscript of tliis book has l)cen in u\y possession for a period of seven }'ears, and my lips nmst now be sealed concerning all that transpired in connection there- with outside the subject-matter recorded therein. And \ct I can not deny that for these seven years I ha\e hesitated concerning my proper course, and more than once liave decided to cover from sight the fascinating leaflets, hide them among .surrounding volumes and let them slumber until chance should bring them to the attention of the future student, — but now with Ixirely time to fulfill the self-accepted trust, I am impelled to act; I can hesitate no longer; the manuscript shall be printed.

It may seem to some persons that, 1)\' thrusting this manu- script u])()n another, Llewellyn Drnry has ex'aded a duty, for he seemingly did not care to fulfill his promise, and yet, we should not judge him harshly lest we misjudge. Why did lie shrink from publicity at the sacrifice of his solemnly gi\en word? Why have I permitted myself to agree to fulfill his promise? These thoughts rise before me as they will come to others who read this book, and, this gloomy day of December, i<S94, as, snatching a moment from the exactions of business, I sit among these old xolumes devoted to science-lore, and again study over the unicpie manu.script of thirty years ago, and meditate, I hesitate again: — Shall I, or .shall I not? — but a duty is a duty. Perliaj)s the my.sterious part of the .subject will be cleared to me only when m\ own thought-words come to rest among the.se venerable relics of the past, when books that I have written become companions of ancient works about me, for then I can claim relation.sliip with the .shadows that flit in and out, and can demand that they, the ghosts of the librarv, commune with the shade ot the writer of this preface.

viii. I'RIUACH.

Suffice it then to say, that having decided to issue a Hmited edition of the work that this preface announces, I liav^e assumed the full responsibihty that Mr. Drury evaded, and have further- more obligated myself to carry out the promises recorded in the pages that are to follow; that if I can locate the persons mentioned in the epilogue of the strange story, should these persons be in want, in accordance with the conditions to which Mr. Drury agreed, and which I have assumed, I will recognize the request made of ]\Ir. Drury.

John Uri Li.ovi), Cincinnati, O.

SUMMARY AND CONTENTS.

The work be.^ins with ;i bio.i(r;ii)hical note i-DiiriTiiiii},' Mr. I.k-wcllvu I)rury, a Cinciiiiiiiti business man of morose disposition an<l scholarly allainmtnts.

In a despondent mood, he challenges fate and occultism, and is unex- pectedly confronted by a savant, who comjicls Mr. Drury to agree U) read, or listen to the reading of a manuscrijjt.

This paper purports to recite the life history of the intruding guest, and contains statements that often seem to conflict with science and philos<jj)hy, and even intrude upon orthodox religion. In several instances, Mr. Drury takes issue with the statements made by his guest, who then permits Mr. Drury to fortify himself with evidence, and afterward, by a])i)ointnient, they meet to discuss the questions at issue. During these interludes the jjuest performs several curious experiments, and seemingly supports his startling assertions.

Finally, he vanishes as mj'steriously as he appeared, leaving in Mr. Drurj's hand his strange manuscript and a sealed letter, the latter indicating the manner in which the nianuscrii)t. after thirty years, is to be given to the public.

Mr. Drury, however, evaded the responsibility without offering any explan- ation of his reasons for doing so. Air. Lloy<l, who subse(iuently assumed tl>e publication of the book, wrote the preface, from which each reader can formulate an opinion concerning the part he has taken in the affair, and answer as best he can the question as to what is true and what is fiction in the curious story [history] of I — Am— The— Man.

PAOR.

Prologue.— History of Llewellyn Drury -- I

CI1.\PTER.

I. Home of Llewellyn Drury— "Never Less .\lone than When .\l..iu ' :;

II. A Friendly Conference with Prof. Chickering Hi

III. .\ Second Interview with the Mysterious Visitor -- 23

IV. .\ Search for Knowledge— The .Mchemistic Letter 35

V. The Writing of "My Confession" ■!•*

VI. Kidnapped - '^^

VII. A Wild Night I am Prematurely Aged-- ->»

VIII. A Lesson in Mind Stu.ly — 63

IX. I Can Not Establish My Identity - -- 67

X. My Journey Towards the Knd of Kartli lUeins The AdepU Broth- erhood •*

XI. My Tournev Continues Instinct 80

X. SUMMARY AM) CONTENTS.

CHAPTER. PAGE.

XII. A Cavern Discovered Biswell's Hill 84

XIII. The Punch Bowls anil Caverns of Kentucky -" Into the Un-

known Country" 8'.>

XIV. I'arewell to God's Sunshine — " The Echo of the Cry " 90

XV. A Zone of Lijilit, Deep Within the Earth lOo

X\I. X'italized Darkness — The Narrows in Science lU'J

X\'II. The Funj^us Forest — Enchantment 111)

XVIII. The Food of Man 12:5

XIX. The Cry from a Distance — I Reliel Against Continuing the

Journey l-*^

FIRST IXTKRLl'DE.— THE NARRATIVE IXTERRIPTEU.

XX. My Unljiddeu t'lUest Proves His Statements, and Refutes My

Philosophy 134

MY UNBIDDEN GUEST CONTINUES HIS MANUSCRIPT. XXI. My Weight Disappearing 142

SECOND INTERLUDE.

XXII. The Story Again Interrupted— My Guest Departs 149

XXIII. Scientific ^len (Questioned — Aristotle's Ether 151

XXIV. The Soliloquy of Prof. Daniel Vaughn — " Gravitation is the Be-

ginning and Gravitation is the End: All Earthly Bodies Kneel to Gravitation" 156

THE UNBIDDEN GUEST RETURNS TO RE.\D HIS MANU- SCRIPT, CONTINUING THE NARRATIVE.

XX\'. The Mother of a \'olcano — "Vou Can Not Disprove, and You

Dare Not Admit" 162

XX\T. Motion from Inherent Energy — " Lead Me Deeper Into this Ex- panding Study " 169

XX\TI. Site]), Dreams, Nightmare— "Strangle the Life from My Body" 175

THIRD INT1:RI,UDE.— THE N.\RR.VriVE AG.\IN INTER- RUPTED.

XXVIII. .V Challenge My Unbidden Guest Accepts It 179

XXIX. Beware of Biology — The Science of the Life of Man— The old

man relates a story as an object lesson 186

XXX. Looking Backward — The Living Brain 193

THE M.\NUSCRIPT CONTINUED.

XXXI. .\ Lesson on Volcanoes — Primary Colors are Capable of Farther

Sulxli vision 204

XXXII. :\Iatter is Retarded :Motioii "A Wail of Sadness Inexpressible" 218

XXXIII. ".\ Study of True Science is a Study of God " — Communing

with Angels 224

XXXIV. I Cease to Breathe, and Yet Live 226

XXXV. "A Certain Point Within a Circle" — Men are as Parasites on the

Roof of Earth 230

CHAPTHR.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XIJII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XIA'II. XLVIII.

XIJX.

h.

LI.

LIT. Epii^oguk

SUMMARY .\ND CONTlvNTS. ^i.

PACE.

The Drinks of Man -S-ih

The Drunkard's Voice L'.JH

The Drunkard's Den iMO

Among the Drunkards IMT

Further Tenii)lation^Ktidorhpa Appears -J'yJ

Misery litiii

Eternity Without Time L'7"J

FOURTH IN'n;RI,UI)l%.

The Last Contest '_'77

THE NARRATIVH CONTINUKD.

The I'alhomless Abyss— The Edge of the Ivarlh's Shell .'',()«;

My Heart-throb is Stilled, and Yet I Live 310

The Inner Circle, or the Ivnd of (Vravitation In the Botlom-

lessGulf — 317

Hearing Without Ears— "What Will Be the End" 322

Why and How — The Straggling Ray of Light from those

I'arthermost Outreaches 327

Oscillating Through Space— The Earth Shell Above Us :i:?:i

My Weight Annihilated—" Tell me," I cried in alarm, " is this

a living tomb?" 3-10

Is That a Mortal ?—" The Ivnd of ICarth " 34o

FIFTTT INTIvKI-rnK.

The Last Farewell 352

, — Letter Accompanying the ^Mysterious Manuscript •^^]0

I LT.T TSTR ATIONS

Muiiuscripl (Ifdicalion of AuUiur's Kdilion, jjicccdiii,!^ lillc-jjat^e. Frontispiece— Likeness of The— JMan -Who— Did— It (])hoto,^ravnre).

HACK.

iii. Preface Introduction — "Here lies the bones," etc.

7, S. " And to niv amazement, saw a white-haired man."

29, 30. "The same j(littering, horri1)le, mysterious knife."

35,36. "Fac-simile of the mysterious manuscript of I— Am— The— ^Man—

Who-^Did— It.

85, 86. " Map of Kentucky near entrance to cavern."

95, 96. "Confronted by a singular looking being."

K)i, 102. "This struggling ray of sunlight is to be your last for years."

1 17, 118. " I was in a forest of colossal fungi.

131, 132. " ^Monstrous cubical cr\'stals."

147, 148. "Far as the eye could reach the glassy barrier spread as a crystal

mirror. '

'57. 'S'*^- "Soliloquy of Prof. Daniel X'aughn ' Ciravitation is the beginning, and gravitation is the end ; all earthly bodies kneel to gravitation." "

165, 166. " We came to a metal boat."

197, 198. " Facing the open window he turned the jjupils of his eyes ui)ward. '

205, 206. "We finally reached a precipitous bluff. '

209,210. " The wall descended perpendicularly to seemingly infinite depths."

255i 256. Rtidorhpa (photogravure).

297, 298. " We passed through caverns filled with cree])ing re]jtiles."

303, 304. " I'lowers and structures beautiful, insects gorgeous. "

307, 308. " With fear and trembling I crept on my knees to his side."

332, 333. Diagram descriptive of journey from the Kentucky cavern to the

" Knd of Earth," showing section of earth's crust.

347. 348- " Suspended in vacancy, he seemed to float."

357, 358. " I stood alone in my room holding the mysterious manuscript."

HAUK-l*A(iE AND TEXT Ct'TS.

iv. "The Stern I'ace." P'acsimile, reduced from c<)])per ])late title l)age of the botanical work (1708), 917 pages, of Sinionis Paulli, 1>., a Danish physician. Original plate 7x514 inches. V. " The Pleasant I'ace." I'ac-simile of the original copper ])late front- ispiece to the finely illustrated botanical work of Joannes Hur- mannus, M. D., descriptive of the plants collected by Carolus Plumierus. Antique. Original plate 9x13 inches.

ILI.rSTRATIONS xiii.

PAGE.

vi. "Skeleton forms oppose iiiyowii." I'liotoj^rapli of John I'ri Llovil in the gloomy alcove of llie ;inli(iuate<l liljrary.

12. " Let me liuve your answer now."

14. " I espied upon the table a long white hair."

32. " Drew the knife twice across the front of llie floor knoh."

52. " I was taken from the vehicle, and transferred to a blockhouse. "

54. " The dead man was thrown overboard."

58. " A mirror was thrust beneath my ga/e."

70. " I am the man you seek."

106. "We approach dayliglit, I can see your face."

108. " Seated himself on a natural bench of stone."

129. "An endless variety of stony figures."

136. Cuts showing water and brine surfaces.

137. Cuts showing earth chambers in which water rises above brine.

13S. 139. Cuts showing that if properly connected, water and brine reverse tiie usual law as to the height of their surfaces.

143. " I bounded upward fully six feet."

144. " I fluttered to the earth as a leaf would fall."

145. "We leaped over great inecjualities."

173. "The bit of garment fluttered listlessly away to the distance, and

then — vacancy." 1S2. Cut showing that water may be nuide to flow from a tube higher

than the surface of the water. 1S4. Cut showing how an arto--.ian fountain may l>e made without earth

strata. 191. " Rising abruptly, he grasped my hand." 200. " A brain, a living brain, my own brain." 211. " Shape of drop of water in the earth cavern." 227. "We would skip several rods, alighting gently." 229. " .\n uncontrollable, inexjiressible desire to flee." 232. " I dropped on my knees before him."

2^^4. " Handing me one of the halves, he spoke the single word, 'Drink.'" 242. "Each finger pointed towards the open way in front."

280. "Telescoped energy spheres."

281. " Space dirt on energy spheres." I drew back the bar of iron to smite the apparently defenseless

being in the forehead." ii5. 'lie sprung from the edge of the clilT into the abyss below, carrying

me with him into its depths." (-56. " The Earth and its atmosphere."

313-

PROLOGUE.

M\' nanic was JoliaiiiK-s IJcwclKn Ll()tiL:;^oll\ii I)rnr\'. I was named Llewellyn at my mother's desire, ont of respect to lier father, Dr. I-' van Llewellyn, the scientist and specnlative phil- osopher, well known to cnrious stndents as the antlu)r of varions rare works on occnlt snbjects. The other jjjiven names were ancestral also, but when I reached the a^j^e of appreciation, they naturally became distasteful ; so it is that in early youth I dr()|)ped the fust and tliird of these cuud)ersome words, and retained only the second Christian name. While perhaps the reader of these lines may rco;ard this coij^nomen with less favor than either of the otliers, still I liked it, as it was the fa\orite of m\- mother, who alwa\-s iised the name in full ; the world, howe\er, contracted Llewellyn to Lew, much to the distress of my dear mother, wlio felt aggrieved at the liberty. After her death I decided to move to a western city, and also determined, ont of respect to her memory, to select from and rearrange the letters of my se\eral names, and con.struct therefrom three short, ter.se word.s, whicli would convey to myself only, the resemblance of my former name. Hence it is that the Cincinnati Directory does not record my self-selected name, which I have no reason to l)ring before the public. To the reader my name is Llewellyn I)rnr\-. I might add that my ancestors were among the early settlers of wliat is now New York City, and were direct descendants of the early Welsh kings; but these matters do not concern the reader, and it is not of them that I now choose to write. My object in jnitting down these ])reliminarv paragraphs is simply to a.ssnre the reader of such facts, and .such only, as may give him confidence in my personal sinceritv and responsibility, in order tliat he may with a right understanding read the remarkable statements that occur in the succeeding chapters.

The story I am about to relate is very direct, and some parts

of it are verv stran<re, not to sav marvelous; but not on account

1

2 I'.TIDORHl'A.

of its Strangeness alone do I ask for the narrative a readinj^ ; — that were mere trifling. What is here set down happened as recorded, Imt I shall not attempt to explain thinjj^s which even to myself are enij^matical. Let the candid reader read the story as I have told it, and make ont of it what he can, or let him pass the page by unread — I shall not insist on claiming his further attention. Only, if he does read, I beg him io read with an open mind, without prejudice and without ])redilection.

Who or what I am as a participant in this work is of small importance. I mention my history only for the .sake of frankness and fairness. I have nothing to gain b\- issuing the volume. Neither do I court praise nor shun censure. ISIy purpose is to tell the truth.

Early in the fifties I took u}) my residence in the Queen City, and though a very young man, found the employment ready that a friend had obtained for me with a manufacturing firm engaged in a large and complicated business. M\ duties were varied and peculiar, of such a nature as to tax body and mind to the utmost, and for several years I served in the most exacting of business details. Besides the labor which my vocation entailed, with its manifold and multiform perplexities, I voluntarily imposed upon myself other tasks, which I pursued in the privacy of my own bachelor apartments. An inherited love for books on abstruse and occult subjects, probably in part the result of my blood connection with Dr. Kvan Llewellyn, caused me to collect a unique librarv, largely on mystical subjects, in which I took the keenest delight. My business and my professional duties by day, and mv studies at night, made my life a busy one.

In the midst of my work and reading I encountered the char- acter whose strange story forms the essential part of the following narrative. I may anticipate by saying that the manuscript to follow only incidentally concerns myself, and that if possible I would relinquish all connection therewith. It recites the physical, mental, and moral adventures of one whose life history was abru]nU- thrust upon my attention, and as abruptly interrupted. The vicissitudes of his body and soul, circumstances seemed to compel me to learn and to make public.

KTinORHPA.

chai'Ti-:r I.

NEVKR M'.SS AI.OXI-: TIIAX WHI-.X AI.oNK.

()KI'", llian thirty years aj^o occnrrcfl the

first of the series of remarkable events

I am about to relate. The exact date I

can not recall ; but it was in November,

and, to those familiar with November weather

in the Ohio Valley, it is hardly necessary to

state that the month is one of possibilities.

hat istosav, it is liable to l)rin<^ every vari-

etv of weather, from the delicious, dreamy

Indian sunnner da>s that linger late in the

fall, to a combination of rain, hail, snf)w, sleet, — in

short, atmospheric conditions sufficiently a<;,i;ravat-

ing to develop a suicidal mania in any one the least

susceptible to such influences. While the general

character of the month is much the same the conntr>' over, —

showing dull grey tones of sky, abundant rains that penetrate

man as they do the earth ; cold, shifting winds, that search the

verv marrow, — it is always safe to count more or less ujion the

probability of the unexpected throughout the month.

The particular day which ushered in the event about to be chronicled, was one of these possil)le heterogeneous days j^resent- ing a combination of sunshine, shower, and snow, with winds that ran"- all the chanees from balmv to blusterv, a niornijig air of caloric and an evening of numbing cold. The earlv morning started fair and sunny ; later came light showers suddenly switched bv shifting winds into blinding .sleet, until the middle of the afternoon found the four winds and all the elements commingled in one wild orgy with clashing and roaring as of a great organ

i:tii»()Riip\.

with all the stops out, and all the stoiin-rK-iids (lancing over the key-boards! Xit^htfall biou^dit some semblance of order to the soundinij: chaos, but still kept up the wild music of a typical November day, with every accompaniment of bleakness, gloom, and desolation.

Thousands of chimneys, exhaling murky clouds of bituminous soot all day, had covered the city with the proverbial pall which the winds in their sport had shifted hither and yon, but as, thor- oughly tired out, they subsided into silence, the smoky mesh sud- denly settled over the houses and into the streets, taking possession of the city and contributing to the melancholy wretchedness of such of the inhabitants as had to be out of doors. Through this smoke the red sun when \isible had dragged his downward course in manifest discouragement, and the hastening twilight soon gave place to the blackness of darkness. Night reigned supreme.

Thirty vears ago electric lighting was not in vogue, and the SNSteni of street lamps was far less complete than at present, although the gas burned in them may not ha\-e been any w^orse. The lami)s were much fewer and farther between, and the light which they emitted had a feeble, sickly aspect, and did not reach any distance into the moist and murky atmosphere. And so the night was dismal enough, and the few people upon the street were visible only as they passed directly beneath the lamps, or in front of lighted windows; seeming at other times like moving shadows against a black ground.

As I am like to be conspicuous in these pages, it may be proper to say that I am very susceptible to atmospheric influences. I figure among my friends as a man of quiet disposition, but I am at times morose, although I endea\or to conceal this fact from others. My ner\'ous system is a sensitive weather-glass. Some- times I fancy that I nuist have been born under the planet Saturn, for I find mvself unpleasantly influenced by moods ascribed to that depressing planet, more especially in its disagreeable phases, for I regret to state that I do not find corresponding elation, as I should, in its brighter aspects. I have an especial dislike for wintrv weather, a dislike which I find growling with my years, until it has developed almost into positive antipathy and dread. On the dav I have described, my moods had varied with the weather. The fitfulness of the winds had found its way into niv

"Ni'Ai'.R ij:ss ai.onI'; than wiii.x ai.oni-;." 5

feelinojs, and iIk- soinlK-r tone of the clouds into my meditations. I was restless as the elements, and a deep sense of dissatisfaction with nnself and everytliinf^ else, possessed me. I conld not con- tent myself in an>- place or position. Readin;^ was distastefnl, writinj; equally so; but it occurred to me that a brisk walk, for a few blocks, mij^ht afford relief. Mufflinj; myself uj) in my overcoat and fur cap, I took the street, only to find the air <;nstv and raw, and I gave up in still <,n-eater dis.s^nist, and returninj^ home, after drawino^ the curtains and lockinjj^ the doors, planted my.self in front of a glowin.*; <^rate fire, finnly resolved to rid my.self of myself by resortin<; to the oblivion of thonj.,dit, reverie, or dream. To sleep was impossible, and I sat moodily in an easv chair, noting the quarter and half-hour strokes as they were chimed out sweetly from the spire of vSt. Peter's Cathedral, a few blocks away.

Nine o'clock passed with its silver-voiced song of " Home, Sweet Home " ; ten, and then eleven strokes of the ponderous bell which noted the hours, roused me to a strenuous effort to shake off the feelings of despondency, unre.st, and turbulence, that all combined to produce a state of mental and physical niiser>' now insufferable. Rising suddenly from my chair, without a con.scious effort I walked mechanically to a book-case, seized a volume at random, reseated myself before the fire, and opened the book. It proved to be an odd, neglected volume, " Rilev's I)ictionar>- of Latin Quotations." At the moment there flaslied U])on me a conscious duality of existence. Had the old book some mesmeric power? I seemed to myself two persons, and I quickly said aloud, as if addressing my double : "If I can not quiet you, turbtilent Spirit, I can at least adapt my.self to your condition. I will read this book haphazard from bottom to top, or backward, if necessary, and if this docs not change the .subject often enough, I will try Xoah Webster." Opening the b<K)k mechanically at page 297, I glanced at the bottom line and read, " Xunquam minus .solus quam cum solus" (Xcver le.ss alone than when alone). These words arrested my thoughts at once, as, by a singular chance, the\' seemed to fit my mood ; was it or was it not some conscious in\isible intelligence that caused me to .select that page, and brought the apothegm to my notice?

Again, like a (lash, came the con.sciousnc.ss of duality, and I began to argue with m\' other self. " This is arrant non.scnse,"

6 IvTIDOREII'A.

I cried aloud; "even thouorh Cicero did say it, and, it is on a par with many other dehisive maxims that have for so many years embittered the existence of our modern youth by misleadinj^ thoujj^ht. Do you know, Mr. Cicero, that this statement is not sound? That it is unworthy the position you occupy in history as a thinker and philosopher? That it is a contradiction in itself, for if a man is alone he is alone, and that settles it?"

I mused in this vein a few moments, and then resumed aloud: " It won't do, it won't do; if one is alone — the word is absolute, — he is sin<;^le, isolated, in short, alone ; and there can by no manner of possibility be any one else present. Take myself, for instance : I am the sole occupant of this apartment ; I am alone, and yet you say in so many words that I was never less alone than at this instant." It was not without some misgiving that I uttered these words, for the strange consciousness of my own duality constanth' grew stronger, and I could not shake off the reflection that even now there were two of myself in the room, and that I was not so nuicli alone as I endeavored to conx'ince ni\sclf.

This feeling oppressed me like an incubus ; I must throw it off", and, rising, I tossed the book upon the table, exclaiming: " What folly ! I am alone, — positively there is no other living thing visible or invisible in the room." I hesitated as I spoke, for the strange, undefined sensation that I was not alone had become almost a conviction ; but the sound of my voice encouraged me, ami I determined to discuss the subject, and I remarked in a full, strong voice: "I am surely alone ; I know I am! Why, I will wager everything I possess, even to my soul, that I am alone." I stood facing the smoldering embers of the fire which I had neglected to replenish, uttering these words to settle the contro- versy for good and all with one person of m\- dual self, but the other ego seemed to dissent violently, when a soft, clear voice claimed my ear :

"You have lost your wager; you are not alone."

I turned instantly towards the direction of the sound, and, to my amazement, saw a white-haired man seated on the opposite side of the room, gazing at me with the utmost composure. I am not a coward, nor a believer in ghosts or illusions, and yet that sight froze me where I stood. It had no supernatural appearance — on the contrary, was a plain, ordinar\-, flesh-and-blood man;

AND TO MY AMAZKMIIXT SAW A WIirrH-IIAIRKD >[AN'.

"N'i;\i;r ij;ss ai.oniv than \vin;.\ ai.oni;." 9

but the wcatlicr, the experiences of the day, tlie weird, inck-iiRiit ni.i^ht, had all c()ns])ircd to strain my nerves to the lii<;hest p(;int of tension, and I trend)led from head to f(jot. Xotinj; this, the stranj^er said pleasantly: "Oniet yonrself, my dear sir; you have nothing to fear; be seated." I obeyed, mechanically, and regain- ing in a few moments some semblance of composure, took a mental inventory of my visitor. Who is he? what is lie? how did he enter without my notice, and why? what is his busine.ss? were all questions that flashed into my mind in quick succession, and quickly flashed out unanswered.

The stranger .sat eying me composedly, even pleasantly, as if waiting for me to reach some conclusion regarding himself. At last I surmised: " He is a maniac who has found his way here by methods peculiar to the insane, and my personal safety demands that I use him discreetly."

"Very good," he remarked, as though reading mv thoughts; " as well think that as anything else."

" But why are you here? What is )-our business?" I a>ke(l.

"Von have made and lost a wager," he said. " Vou have committed an act of folly in making positive statements regarding a matter about which you know nothing — a very common failing, b\- the way, on the j)art of mankind, and concerning which I wish first to set you straight."

The ironical coolness with which he said this provoked me, and I hastily rejoined: "You are impertinent; I nnist ask you to leave my house at once."

"Very well," he answered ; " but if >ou insist upon this, I shall, on behalf of Cicero, claim the stake of your voluntar\- wager, which means that I nuist first, by natural though \iolent means, release your soul from your body." So .saving he aro.se, drew from an inner pocket a long, keen knife, the blade of whicli quiveringly gli.stened as he laid it uj)on the table. Mo\-ing his chair so as to be within easy reach of the gleaming weapon, lie sat down, and again regarded me with the .same quiet coniposure I had noted, and which was fast dispelling my first impression concerning his sanit\'.

I was not prepared for his strange action; in truth, I was not prepared for anvthing ; my mind was confu.sed concerning the whole night's doings, and I was unable t«j rea.son clearlv or

10 ETIDORIIPA.

consecutively, or even to satisfy myself what I did think, if indeed I thoiij^dit at all.

The sensation of fear, ho\ve\er, was fast leaving me; there was something reassuring in my unbidden guest's perfect ease of manner, and the mild, though searching gaze of his eyes, which were wonderful in their expression. I began to observe his personal characteristics, which impressed me favorably, and yet were extraordinary. He was nearly six feet tall, and perfectly straight ; well proportioned, with no tendency either to leanness or obesity. But his head was an object from which 1 could not take my eyes, — such a head surely I had never before seen on mortal shoulders. The chin, as seen through his silver beard, was rounded and well developed, the mouth straight, with pleasant lines about it, the jaws square and, like the mouth, indicating decision, the eyes deep set and arched with heavy eyebrows, and the whole surmounted by a forehead so vast, so high, that it was almost a deformity, and yet it did not impress me unpleasantly ; it was the forehead of a scholar, a profound thinker, a deep student. The nose was inclined to aquiline, and quite large. The contour of the head and face impressed me as indicating a man of learning, one who had given a lifetime to experimental as well as speculative thought. His voice was mellow, clear, and distinct, always pleas- antlv modulated and soft, never loud nor unpleasant in the least degree. One remarkable feature I must not fail to mention — his hair; this, while thin and scant upon the top of his head, was long, and reached to his shoulders; his beard was of unusual length, descending almost to his waist; his hair, eyebrows, and beard were all of singular whiteness and purity, almost transpar- ent, a silver}' whiteness that seemed an aureolar sheen in the glare of the gaslight. What struck me as particularly remarkable ' was that his skin looked as soft and smooth as that of a child ; there was not a blemish in it. His age was a puzzle none could guess ; stripped of his hair, or the color of it changed, he might be twenty-five, — given a few wrinkles, he might be ninety. Taken altogether, I had never seen his like, nor anything approaching his like, and for an instant there was a faint suggestion to my mind that he was not of this earth, but belonged to some other planet. I now fancy he nnist have read m\- impressions of him as these ideas shaped themselves in my brain, and that Ik- was quietly

"NIvVI'.R I,i:SS AI.ONI-: TIIAX WHF.N AI.ONK." 11

waiting;; for hk- to i\i;aiii a (UL,n'ee of SL-ir-]')os.scssion that would allow him lo disclose tin.- |)ur])()Sc- of his \isil.

He was first to l^reak the silence: "I see that you are not disposed to pay >our w^aj^er an\- more than I am toc<jllect it, so we will not discuss that. I admit that m\- introduction to-nij^ht was abrupt, but you can not deny that you challen<;ed me to appear." I was not clear upon the point, and said .so. " Your menior)' is at fault," he continued, " if you can not recall ytnir experiences of the day ju.st past. Did you not attempt to interest yourself in modern book lore, to fix your mind in turn upon history, chem- istry, botany, poetry, and general literature? And all these failing, did )ou not deliberately challenge Cicero to a practical demonstra- tion of an old apothegm of his that has survived for centuries, and of your own free will did not you make a wager that, as an admirer of Cicero's, I am free to accept?" To all this I could but silently assent. "\'ery good, then ; we will not ])ursue this subject further, as it is not rcle\-ant to my purpose, which is to ac(juainl you with a narrati\'e of unusual interest, U])(tn certain conditions, with which if \()U conipU', nou will not onh' ser\-e yourself, but me as well."

" Please name the conditions," I said.

"They are .simple enough," he answered. " The narrative I speak of is in manuscript. I will produce it in the near future, and my design is to read it aloud to you, or to allow you to read it to me, as you may select. Further, my wi.sh is that during the reading you shall interpose any objection or question that you deem proper. This reading will occupy many evenings, and I shall of necessity be with you often. When the reading is con- cluded, we will seal the package .securely, and I .shall leave you forever. Yon will then de]M)sit the manuscript in .some .safe place, and let it remain for thirt\- years. When this period has elapsed, I wish you to publi.sh this history to the world."

" Your conditions .seem easy." I said, after a few .seconds' pau.sc.

"They are certainly very simple; do you accej>t?"

I hesitated, for the prospect of giving my.self up to a suc- cession of interviews with this extraordinary and my.sterious personage .seemed to require consideration. He evidently divined mv thoughts, for, ri.sing from his chair, he .said abniptly: "Let me ha\e N'our answtT now."

12

KTIDoRIirA.

I debated the matter no further, but auswered : "I accept, conditioually."

" Xanie your couditious," the guest replied.

" I will either publish the work, or induce some other man to do so."

"let mk iiavk your answer now."

"Good," he said; "I will see you again," with a polite bow; and turning to the door which I had previously locked, he opened it softly, and with a quiet "Good night" disappeared in the hall-way.

I looked after him with bewildered senses; but a sudden impulse caused me to glance toward the table, when I saw that he had forgotten his knife. With the view of returning this, I reached to pick it up, but my finger tips no sooner touched the handle than a sudden chill shi\-ered along my nerves. Not as an electric shock, but rather as a sensation of extreme cold was the current that ran through me in an instant. Rushing into the hall-way to

"NIvVIvR IJCSS AKONI', THAN WIII'N AI,( )Ni:." ]?,

the landinjj^ of the stairs, I called after the mysterious heiiij^s " Von have forj^otten your knife," hut beyond the faint echo of niv voice, I heard no sound. The i)liant()ni was i;(Mie. A moment later I was at the foot of the stairs, and had thrown open tlie door. A street lamp shed an uncertain light in front of the house. I stepped out and listened intently for a moment, but not a sound was audible, if indeed I except the beating of m\- own heart, which throbbed so wildly that I fancied I heard it. No footfall echoed from the deserted streets; all was silent as a churchyard, and I closed and locked the door softly, tiptoed mv way back to my room, and sank collapsed into an eas\- chair. I was more than exhausted; I quivered from head to foot, not with cold, but with a strange nervous chill that found iuten.sest expres- sion in my spinal colunni, and seemed to flash up and down mv back vibrating like a feverous pulse. This active ]>ain was succeeded by a feeling of fnven numbness, and I sat I know not how long, trying to tranquilize myself and think temperatelv (^f the night's occurrence. By degrees I recovered m\' normal sensations, and directing my will in the channel of .sober reasoning, I said to myself: "There can be no nii.stake about his visit, for his knife is here as a witness to the fact. So nuich is sure, and I will secure that testimony at all events." With this reflection I turned to the table, but to my astoni.shment I discovered that the knife had di.sappeared. It needed but this miracle to start the perspiration in great cold beads from every pore. My brain was in a whirl, and reeling into a chair, I cov- ered my face with my hands. How long I .sat in tliis posture I do not remember. I only know that I began to doubt my own sanity, and wondered if this were n(jt the way people became deranged. Had not my ])eculiar habits of isolation, irregular and intense study, erratic living, all conspired to nn.seat rea.son ? Surely here was every ground to believe so ; and Net I was able still to think consistently and hold steadily to a .single line of thought. Insane people can not do that, I reflected, and gradu- ally the tremor and excitement wore away. When I had become calmer and more collected, and my .sober judgment .said, "(io to bed ; sleep just as long as you can ; liold your eyelids down, and when yon awake refreshed, as yon will, think out the wliole subject at vouv leisure," 1 aro.se, threw open llie shutler.s, ami

14

KTinoRHPA.

found that day was brcakinj^. Hastily undressing I went to bed, and closed my eyes, vaguely conscious of some soothing <ruardiauslii]j. Perhaps because I was physically exhausted, I soon lost myself in the oblivion of sleep.

"I KSPIEP UPON THK TAKI.K A I.ONC. WHlTlv HAIR."

I did not dream,— at least I could not afterwards remember my dream if I had one, but I recollect thinking that somebody struck ten distinct blows on my door, which seemed to me to be of metal and very sonorous. These ten blows in m>- semi-conscious .state I counted. I lay very quiet for a time collecting my thoughts and noting various objects about the room, until mv eye caught the dial of a iMeuch clock ni)on the

"ni-;vi:r ijvSS ai/^xi' thax \vin;\ alom-;." 15

mantel. It was a few minutes past ten, and the blows I had heard were the strokes of the hammer upon the j^onj; in the clock. The sun was shininj; into the room, which was quite cold, for the fire had gone out. I aro.se, drcs.sed my.self quickly, and after thoroughly laving my face and hands in ice-cold water, felt considerably refreshed.

Before going out to breakfast, while looking around the room for a few things which I wanted to take with me, I espied upon the table a long white hair. This was indeed a surprise, for I had about concluded that my adventure of the previous night was a species of waking nightmare, the result of (nerworked brain and weakened body. But here was tangible e\idence to the contrary, an assurance that my mysterious \isitor was not a fancy or a dream, and his parting words, " I will see >on again," recurred to me with singular effect. "He will see me again; very well ; I will preser\'e this evidence of his visit f(jr future use." I wound the delicate filament into a little coil, folded it carefully in a bit of paper, and consigned it to a corner in my pocket-book, thoiigh not without some misgixing that it too might disappear as did the knife.

The strange experience of that night hatl a good effect on me ; I became more regular in all my habits, took abundant sleep and exercise, was more methodical in m\' modes of study and reasoning, and in a short time found myself vastly im])ro\ t-d in every way, mentalh- and plusically.

The days went fleeting into weeks, the weeks into niDUlhs, and while the form and figure of the white-haired stranger were seldom absent from my mind, he came no more.

CHAPTKR II.

A KRIKXDLV CONKKRKN'CK.

It is rare, in onr present civilization, to find a man who lives alone. This remark does not apply to hermits or persons of abnormal or perverted mental tendencies, but to the majorit\' of mankind living and moving actively among their fellows, and engaged in the ordinary occupations of humanity. Ever)- man must have at least one confidant, either of his own household, or within the circle of his intimate friends. There may possibly be rare exceptions among persons of genius in statecraft, war, or commerce, but it is doubtful even in such instances if any keep all their thoughts to themselves, hermetically sealed from their fellows. As a prevailing rule, either a loving wife or very near friend shares the inner thought of the most secretive individual, even when secrecy seems an indisjiensable element to success. The tendency to a free interchange of ideas and experiences is almost universal, instinct prompting the natural man to unburden his most sacred thought, when the proper confidant and the proper time come for the disclosure.

For months I kept to myself the events narrated in the preceding chapter. And this for several reasons: first, the dread of ridicule that would follow the relation of the fantastic occur- rences, and the possible suspicion of my sanity, that might result from the recital ; second, very grave doubts as to the reality of my experiences. Rut b)- degrees .self-confidence was restored, as I reasoned the matter over and reassured myself by occa- sional contcmi)lation of the silverv hair I had coiled in my pocket-book, and which at first I had expected would \anish as did the stranger's knife. There came u])on me a feeling that I should see my weird visitor again, and at an early day. I resisted this ini])ression, for it was a feeling of the idea, rather than a thought, but the vague expectation grew upon me in spite of myself, until at length it became a conviction which no argument

' 16 '

A I'RII;NI>I,V CoNII.KI-.N'CIv 17

or lot^ic could shake. Curiously (.uouj^h, as llic ori^^iual incidciil receded iuto ihc i)ast, this uiw idea thrnsl itself into tlie fore- ground, and I beji^an in my own mind to court another interview. At times, sitting alone after night, I felt tliat I was watched by unseen eyes; these eyes haunUd uie iu my solitude, and I was morally sure of the presence of another than myself in the rof)m. The sensation was at first unpleasant, and I tried to throw it off, with partial success. Hut ouK' for a little while could I banish the iulrusise idea, and as the thouglil took form, and the inx'isible presence became more actual to consciousness, I hoped that the stranger would nuike good his parting promise, " I will see you again."

On one thing I was resolved; I would at least be better informed on the subject of hallucinations and apparitions, and not l)e taken unawares as I had been. To this end I decided to confer with my friend. Professor Chickering, a quiet, thought- ful man, of varied accomplishments, and thoroughly read upon a great number of topics, especially in the literature of the marvelous.

So to the Profes.sor I went, after due appointment, and confided to him full particulars of my adventure. He listened patiently throughout, and when I had finished, assured me in a matter-of-fact way that such hallucinations were by no means rare. His remark was provoking, for I did not expect from the patient interest he had shown while I was telling my story, that the whole matter would be dismissed thus summarih-. I said with some warmth :

" But this was not a hallucination. I tried at first to persuade myself that it was illusory, but the more I have thought the experience over, the more real it becomes to me."

" Perhaps you were dreaming," suggested the Profes.sor.

"No," I answered; "I have tried that hypothesis, and it will not do. Many things make that view untenable."

" Do not be too sure of that," he .said ; " you were, by your own account, in a highly nervous condition, and physically tired. It is possible, perhaps probable, that in this state, as you .sat in your chair, von dozed ofT for a short interval, during which the illusion flashed through Nour mind."

" How do \()ii fxi)!;!!!! llu- fact that incidents occnpyinj^ a larj^e portion of the nij^ht, occurred in an interval wliich \on describe as a flash?"

"Easily enough; in dreams time may not exist: periods embracing weeks or months may be reduced to an instant. Long journeys, hours of conversation, or a multitude of transac- tions, may be compressed into a term measured by the opening or closing of a door, or the striking of a clock. In dreams, ordinars- standards of reason find no place, while ideas or events chase through the mind more rapidly than thought."

"Conceding all this, why did I, considering the unusual character of the incidents, accept them as real, as substantial, as natural as the most commonplace events?"

" There is nothing extraordinary in that," lie replied. " In dreams all sorts of absurdities, impossibilities, discordancies, and violation of natural law appear realities, without exciting the least surprise or suspicion. Imagination runs riot and is supreme, and reason for the time is dormant. We see ghosts, spirits, the forms of persons dead or living, — we suffer pain, pleasure, hunger, — and all sensations and emotions, without a moment's question of their reality."

" Do any of the subjects of our dreams or visions leave tangible evidences of their presence?"

" Assuredly not," he answered, with an incredulous, half- impatient gesture ; " the idea is absurd."

" Then I was not dreaming," I mused.

Without looking at me, the Professor went on: "These false presentiments may have their origin in other ways, as from mental disorders caused by indigestion. Nicoiai, a noted bookseller of Berlin, was thus afflicted. His experiences are interesting and possibly suggestive. Let me read some of them to you."

The Professor hereupon glanced over his bookshelf, selected a volume, and proceeded to read : *

"I generally saw human forms of both sexes; but they usually seemed not to take the smallest notice of each other, moving as in a market place, where all are eager to press through the crowd; at times, however, they seemed to be transacting business with each other. I also saw several times, people on horseback, dogs, and birds.

'•'This work I have fouiul to be Vol. IV. nf Clianibtrs' Miscellany, published by Gould and Lincoln, Boston. — J. U. I,.

A I'Kii';ni)1,v con I' I', Ki-; NCI-;. i',»

"All llicsf pliaiilasiiis aijpcartd lo iiii- in lluir natural nJ/u, ami ;i.s ilislincl as if alive, exhibilinj^^ diircrciit sliades of carnation in the uncovercfl parts, as well as (lifferenl colors and fashions in their dresses, tliou^h the colors seemed somewhat paler than in real nature. None of the figures appeared i)articularly terrible, comical, or (lis<,aistin,ij, most of them heinj,' of iiidifTereiit shape, and some prcsentinj^ a pleasant aspect. The lonj^jer these i)hanlasms continued to visit me, the more frecjuently did they return, while at the same time they increased in number about four weeks after they liad first appeared. I also began to hear them talk: these phantoms conversed among themselves, but more frequently addressed their discourse to me; their speeches were uncom- monly short, and never of an un])leasant turn. .\t different times there appeared to me both dear and sensible friends of both sexes, whose addresses tended to appease my grief, which had not yet wholly subsided: their consola- tory speeches were in general addressed to me when I was alone. Sometimes, however, 1 was accosted by these consoling friends while I was engaged in company, and not unfrequently while real persons were speaking to me. The.se consolatory addresses consisted sometimes of abrupt phrases, and at other times they were regularh- executed."

Here I interrupted: "I note, Profe.s.sor, that Mr. Xieolai knew the.se forms to be illusions."

Without answering my remark, he eonlinued to read:

"There is in imagination a potency far exceeding the fabled power of Aladdin's lamp. How often does one sit in wintry evening musings, and trace in the glowing embers the features of an absent friend? Imagination, with its magic wand, will there build a city with its countless spires, or marshal contending armies, or drive the tempest-shattered ship upon the ocean. The following storv, related by Scott, affords a good illustration of this principle:

" ' Not long after the death of an illustrious i)oet, who had filleil, while living, a great station in the e\-es of the public, a literary frien<l, to wliom the deceased had been well known, was engaged during the darkening twilight of an autumn evening, in perusing one of the publications which jjrofessed to detail the habits and opinions of the distinguished individual who was now no more. As the reader had enjoyed the intimacy of the deceased to a consider- able degree, he was deeply interested in the publication, which contained sonic particulars relating to himself and other fricn<ls. A visitor was sitting in the apartment, who was also engaged in reading. Their sitting-room opened inlt) an entrance hall, rather fantastically fitted up witli articles of armor, skins of wild animals, and the like. It was when laying down his book, and passing into this hall, through which the moon was beginning to shine, that the individual of whom I speak saw right before him. in a standing posture, the exact representation of his departed friend, whose recollection had been so strongly brought to his imagination. He stopped for a single moment, so as to notice the wonderful accuracy with which fancy had impressed upon the bodily eye the peculiarities of dress and position of the illustrious poet. Sensible, however, of the delusion, he felt no sentiment save that of wonder at the extraordinary accuracv of the resemblance, and stepped onward to the figure, which resolved itself as he approached into the various materials of

20 I'.TIDORHrA.

which it was composed. These were merely a screen occupied hy j^reat coats, shawls, plaids, and such other articles as are usually found in a country entrance hall. The spectator returned to the spot from which he hail seen the illusion, antl endeavored with all his power to recall the image which had been so singularly vivid. But this he was unable to do. And the person who had witnessed the apparition, or, more properly, whose exciterl state had been the means of raising it, had only to return to the apartment, and tell his young friend under what a striking hallucination he had for a moment labored." "

Here I was constrained to call the Professor to a halt. " Your stories are very interesting," I said, "but I fail to perceive any analogy in either the conditions or the incidents, to my experience. I was fully awake and con.scious at the time, and the man I .saw appeared and moved about in the full glare of the gaslight," —

" Perhaps not," he answered; " I am simply giving you .some general illustrations of the subject. But here is a case more to the point."

Again he read :

"A lady was once passing through a wood, in the darkening twilight of a stormy evening, to visit a friend who was watching over a dying child. The clouds were thick — the rain beginning to fall; darkness was increasing; the wind was moaning mournfully through the trees. The lady's heart almost failed her as she saw that she had a mile to walk through the woods in the gathering gloom. But the reflection of the situation of her friend forbade her turning back. Excited and trembling, she called to her aid a nervous resolu- tion, and pressed onward. She had not proceeded far when she beheld in the path before her the movement of some very indistinct object. It appeared to keep a little distance ahead of her, and as she made efforts to get nearer to see what it w-as, it seemed proportionally to recede. The laily began to feel rather unpleasantly. There was some pale white object certainly discernible before her, and it appeared mysteriously to float along, at a regular distance, without any effort at motion. Notwithstanding the lady's good sense and unusual resolution, a cold chill began to come over her. She made every effort to resist her fears, and soon succeeded in drawing nearer the mysterious object, when she was appalled at beholding the features of her friend's child, cold in death, wrapt in its shroud. She gazed earnestly, and there it remained distinct and clear before her e\'es. She considered it a premonition that her friend's child was dead, and that she must hasten to her aid. But there was the apparition directly in her path. She must pass it. Taking up a little stick, she forced herself along to the object, and behold, some little animal scampered away. It was this that her excited imagination had transformed into the corpse of an infant in its winding sheet."

I was a little irritated, and once more interrupted the reader warmly: "This is exasperating. Now what resemblance is there between the vagaries of a hysterical, weak-minded woman, and my case ?"

A iRii-.NDi.v c()N1"i;ki;nli-;. 21

He smiled, and a<;;iiii read;

■' TIk- luiiiKToUh slDfics lold of j^liosls, or iIr- spirits of |)irsoii> who are (lead, will in iiiosl instances be found lo have orij^inaled in diseaseil iniaj^iiia- lion, aj^j^ravated by some aljiiornial defect of mind. We may mention a reniarkabls case in point, and one which is not mentioneil in ICn^lish works on this subject; it is told by a compiler of Les Causes COlebres. Two vouti)( noblemen, the Marquises I)e Rambouillet and De I'recy, belonxinj; to two of the first families of l-'rance, made an agreement, in the warmth of their friendship, that the one wlio died first should return to the other with ticlinvjs of the world to come. Soon afterwards I)e Rambouillet went lo the wars in ' I'lanilers, while De Precy remained at I'aris, stricken bv a fever. Lving alone in bed, and severely ill, De Precy one day heard a rustlinj; of his bed curtains, and turninj^ round, saw his friend De Raml)ouillel, in full military attire. The sick man sprung over the bed to welcome his friend, but the other recede<l, ami said that he had come to fulfill his ])romise, having been killecl on that verv (l.iy. He further said that it behooved De Precy to think more of the after- world, as all that was said of it was true, and as he himself would <lie in his fust 1)attle. De Precy was then left by the phantom; and it was afterward found that De Rambouillet had fallen on that day."

"All," I said, "and so the phantom ])rc(lictcd an f\fnl that followed as indicated."

" vSpiritnal illusions," explained the Professor, "are not unnsnal, and well anthenticaled cases are not wanting; in which they ha\e been induced in persons of intellij^ence by functional or oru^anic disorders. In the last case cited, the prediction was followed by a fulfillment, but this was chance or mere coincidence. It would be stran^^e indeed if in the uiullitnde of dreams that come to humanity, some few should not be followed by events so similar as to warrant the belief that they were prefi.i^nred. Hut here is an illustration that fits your case: let me read it:

" In some instances it may be ilifncnll to decide whether specttal ap|K-ar- ances and sjjcctral noises proceeil frotn physical «lerangemcnt or fro»n an overwrought state of mind. Want of exercise and amusement may also be a prevailing cause. .V friend mentions to us the following case: .\n acijuaintance of his, a merchant, in London, who had for years paiil very close attention to business, was one day, while alone in his counting house, very much surprised to hear, as he imagined, persons outside the door talking freely al)out him. Thinking it was some actjuaintances who were playing off a trick, he o|H'ne«l the door to request them to come in, when to his ama/ement, he found that nobodv was there. He again sat down to his desk, and in a few minutes the same dialogue recommenced. The language was verj- alarming. One voice seemed to sav : 'We have the scoundrel in his own counting house; let us go in and seize him.' ' Certainly." replied the other voice, 'it i-i right lo take him; he has been guiltv of a great crime, ami ought to be brought to condiini

•>•_' KTIDOkHI'A.

punishment.' Alarme<l at these threat"., the hewihlered merchant rushed to the floor; and there a){ain no person was to he seen. He now locked his door and went home ; hut the voices, as he thought, f(jllowed him through the crowtl, and he arrived at his house in a most unenviable state of mind. Incline<l to ascribe the voices to derangement in miinl, he sent for a metlical attendant, and told his case, and a certain kind of treatment was prescribe<l. This, however, failed; the voices menacin); him with ]ninishment for purely imaj^inary crimes continueti, and he was reduced to the brink of despair. At length a friend prescribed entire relaxation from business, and a daily game of cricket, which, to his great relief, proved an effectual remedy. The e.xercise banished the phantom voices, and they were no more heard."

"So vou think that I am in need of ont-door exercise?"

" E.xactly."

" And that my experience was ilUi.sory, the resnlt of vertigo, or some temporary calenture of the brain?"

" To be plain with you, yes."

" But I asked you a while ago if specters or phantoms ever leave tangible evidence of their presence." The Profes.sor's eyes dilated in interrogation. I continued: "Well, this one did. After I had followed him out, I found on the table a long, white hair, which I still have," and producing the little coil from my pocket-book, I handed it to him. He examined it curiously, eyed me furtively, and handed it back with the cautious remark :

" I think vou had better commence vour exercise at once."

CIIAPTI'.R III. A SKcoxi) iNTKmTi-:\v wrrii tiN'. Mvs'ri-.kiors visitor.

It is not pleasant to have one's mental responsibilitv bron^ht in qncstion, and the result of my interview with Professor Chickerint^ was, to put it mildly, unsatisfactory. Not that he had exactly questioned my sanity, but it was all too evident that he was di.spo.sed to accept my statement of a plain matter-of-fact occurrence with a too liberal modicum of salt. I sav ''matter-of- fact occurrence" in full knowled,u:e of the truth that I nnself had at first rej^arded the wdiole transaction as a fantasia or flitch t of mind, the result of extreme ner\-ous tension ; but in the interval succeedint];- I had abundant oi)])ortunity to correlate my thoughts, and to bring .some .sort of order out of the mental and physical chaos of that strange, eventful night. True, tlie preliminary events leading up to it w^ere extraordinar\- ; the dismal weather, the depression of body and spirit under which I labored, the wild wdiirl of thought keeping pace with the elements — in short, a general concatenation of events that seemed to be ordered especially for tlie introduction of some abnormal \'isitor — the night would indeed have been incomjdete without a ghost I But was it a ghost? There was nothing ghostly about my \-isitor, except the manner of his entrance and exit. In other respects, he seemed substantial cnougli. He was, in his manners, courteous and ]«)lished as a Chesterfield; learned as a savant in his con\-ersation ; human in his thought- ful regard of my fears and misgivings; but that tremendous forehead, with its crown of siKer hair, the long, translucent beard of ])early w'hiteness, and above all the astounding facility wdth which he read my hidden thought.s — the.se were not natural.

The Professor had been patient with me — I had a right to expect that ; he was entertaining to the extent of reading such excerpts as he had with him on the subject of hallucina- tions and their supposed causes, but had he not spoiled all bv

:.'4 ETIDORHI'A.

assigning me at last to a place with the questionable, unbal- anced characters he had cited? I thought so, and the reflection provoked me ; and this thought grew upon me until I came to regard his stories and attendant theories as so much literary trash.

My own reflections had been sober and deliberate, and had led me to seek a rational explanation of the unusual phenomena. I had gone to Professor C bickering for a certain measure of SNinpathy, and what was more to the point, to secure his stiggestions and assistance in the further unraveling of a profound mystery that might contain a secret of untold use to humanity. Repulsed bv the mode in which my confidence had been received, I decided to do what I should have done from the outset — to keep my own counsel, and to follow alone the investigation to the end, no matter what the result might be. I could not forget or ignore the silver hair I had so religiously preserved. That was genuine ; 'it was as tangible, as real, as convincing a witness as would have been the entire head of my singular visitant, whatever might be his nature.

I began to feel at ease the moment my course was decided, and the feeling was at once renewed within me that the gray head would come again, and by degrees that expectation ripened into a desire, only intensified as the days sped by. The weeks passed into months ; summer came and went ; autumn was fast fading, but the mysterious unknown did not appear. A curious fancy led me now to regard him as my friend, for the mixed and indefinite feelings I felt at first towards him had almost unaccountably been changed to those of sincere regard. He was not always in my thoughts, for I had abundant occupation at all times to keep both brain and hands busy, but there were few e\enings in which I did not, just before retiring, gi\e m\self up for a brief jK-riod to quiet communion with my own thoughts, and I must confess at such times the unknown occupied the larger share of attention. The constant contemplation of anv theme begets a feeling of familiarit>' or acquaintance with the same, and if that subject be an individual, as in the present instance, such contemplation lessens the liability to surprise from any unexpected development. In fact, I not only anticipated a visit, but courted it. The old Latin maxim that I had played

A SECOND INTKRVIKW. 25

with, "Never less alone than wlien alone" liad domiciled itself within my brain as a permanent lod^^er — a conviction, a feeling rather than a thonght defined, and I had bnt little difificnlty in associating an easy-chair which I had come to place in a certain position for my expected visitor, with his presence.

Indian snmmer had passed, and the fall was nearly gone when for some inexplicable reason the nnmber seven began to hannt me. What had I to do with seven, or seven with me? When 1 sat down at night this persistent nnmber mixed itself in ni)' thoughts, to my intense annoyance. Bother take the mystic numeral ! What was I to do with seven? I found myself asking this question audibly one evening, when it suddenly occurred to me that I would refer to the date of my friend's visit. I kept no journal, but reference to a record of some business transactions that I had associated with that event showed that it took place on November seventh. That settled the importunate seven! I should look for whomever he was on the first anniversary of his visit, which was the seventh, now close at hand. The instant I had reached this conclusion the number left me, and troubled me no more.

November third had passed, the fourth, and the fifth had come, when a stubborn, protesting notion entered my mind tliat I was yielding to a superstitious idea, and that it was time to control my vacillating will. Accordingly on this da\' I sent word to a friend that, if agreeable to him, I would call on him on the evening of the seventh for a short social chat, but as I expected to be engaged until later than usual, would he excuse me if I did not reach his a])artments until ten? The request was singular, but as I was now accounted somewhat odd, it excited no comment, and the answer was returned, requesting me to come. The seventh of November came at last. I was nerv'ous during the day, which seemed to drag tediously, and several times it was renuirked of me that I seemed abstracted and ill at ease, but I held my peace. Night came cold and clear, and the stars shone brighter than usual, I thought. It was a sharp contrast to the night of a year ago. I took an early supper, for which I had no appetite, after which I strolled aimlessly about the streets, revolving how I should put in the time till ten o'clock, when I was to call upon my

I't) l-.TIDoRHl'A.

friend. I decided to <^i) to the theater, and to the theater I went. The pla)' was spectacular, " Aladthn ; or, The Wonderful Lamp." The entertainment, to me, was a flat failure, for I was busy with my thoughts, and it was not long until my thoughts were busy with me, and I found myself attempting to answer a series of questions that finall\' became embarrassing. " \\'h\' did \ou make an appointment for ten o'clock instead of eight, if \ou wished to keep away from your apartments?" I hadn't thought of that before ; it was stupid to a degree, if not ill-mannered, and I frankly admitted as much. " Why did you make an ai)pointment at all, in the face of the fact that you not only expected a visitor, but were anxious to meet him?" This was easily answered : because I did not wish to yield to what struck me as superstition. " But do you expect to extend your call until morning?" W^ell, no, I hadn't thought or arranged to do so. ''Well, then, what is to prevent your expected guest from awaiting your return? Or, what assurance have you that he will not encounter you in the street, under circumstances that will provoke or, at the least, embarrass you?" None whatever. "Then what have you gained by your stupid perversity?" Nothing, beyond the assertion of my own individuality. " Why not go home and receive your guest in becoming style?" No; I would not do that. I had started on this course, and I would persevere in it. I would be consistent. And so I persisted, at least until nine o'clock, when I quit the theater in sullen dejection, and went home to make some slight preparation for my evening call.

With my latch-key I let myself into the front door of the apartment house wherein I lodged, walked through the hall, up the staircase, and paused on the threshold of my room, wondering what I would find inside. Opening the door I entered, lea\'ing it open behind me .so that the light from the hallway would shine into the room, which was dark, and there was no transom abo\'e the door. The grate fire had caked into a .solid mass of charred bituminous coal, which shed no illumination beyond a faint red glow at the bottom, showing that it was barely alive, and no more. I struck a match on the underside of the mantel .shelf, and as I lit the gas I heard the click of the door latch. I turned instanth' ; the door had been iienlK' closed 1)\- some unknown

A SKCONI) inti:rvii;\v. 27

force if not by unseen hands, for there was no breath of air stirrinjy. This preternatural interference was not pleasant, for I had hoped in the event of another visit from my friend, if friend he was, that he would bring no uncanny or j^hostlv manifestation to disturb me. I looked at the clock; the index pointed to half past nine. I glanced about the room ; it was orderly, evervthing in projjcr position, e\en to tlie arm-chair that I had been wont to place for my nondescript visitor. It was time to be going, so I turned to the dressing case, brushed my hair, put on a clean scarf, and moved towards the wash-stand, which stood in a little alcove on the opposite side of the room. My self-command well-nigh deserted me as I did so, for there, in the arm-chair that a moment before was empty, sat my guest of a year ago, facing me with placid features ! The room began to revolve, a faint, sick feeling came over me, and I reeled into the first convenient chair, and covered my face with my hands. This depression lasted but an instant, however, and as I recovered self-pos.sessicju, I felt or fancied I felt a pair of penetrating eyes fixed upon me with the same mild, searching gaze I remembered so well. I ventured to look up ; sure enough, there they were, the beaming e\es, and there was he! Rising from his chair, he towered up to his full height, .smiled pleasantly, and with a slight inclination of the head, murmured : "Permit me to wish \ou good exening; I am profoundly glad to meet you again."

It was full a minute before I could nuister courage io answer: " I wish I could say as much for nu'self "

"And why shouldn't you?" he said, gently and courteously; " you have realized, for the past six month.s, that I would return ; more than that — you have known for some time the very day and almost the exact hour of my coming, have even wished for it, and, in the face of all this, I find you preparing to evade the requirements of common hospitality; — are xou doing either me or \-ourself justice?"

I was nettled at the knowledge he displayed of my move- ments, and of ni)' \ery thoughts; m\' old stubbornness as.serted itself, and I was rude enough to say : " Perhaps it is as you .say ; at all events, I am obligated to keej) an engagement, and with your permission will now retire."

28 HTirK)RHPA.

It was curious to mark tlic effect of this speech upon the intruder. He imniediately became grave, reached quietly into an inner pocket of his coat, drew thence the same glittering, horrible, mysterious knife that had so terrified and bewildered me a year before, and looking me steadily in the eye, said coldly, yet with a certain tone of sadness : " Well, I will not grant permission. It is unpleasant to resort to this st\le of argument, but I do it to save time and controversy."

I stepped back in terror, and reached for the old-fashioned bell-cord, with the heavy tassel at the end, that depended from the ceiling, and was on the point of grasping and giving it a vigorous pull.

" Not so fast, if you please," he said, sternly, as he stepped forward, and gave the knife a rapid swish through the air above niv head, causing the cord to fall in a tangle about my hand, cut cleanly, high above my reach !

I gazed in dumb stupor at the rope about my hand, and raised my eves to the remnant above. That was motionless ; there was not the slightest perceptible vibration, such as would naturally be expected. I turned to look at my guest; he had resumed his seat, and had also regained his pleasant expression, but he still held the knife in his hand with his arm extended, at rest, upon the table, which stood upon his right.

" Let us have an end to this folly," he said ; " think a moment, and you will see that you are in fault. Your error we will rectif\' easily, and then to business. I will first sliow^ you the futility of tr\ing to escape this interview, and then we will proceed to work, for time presses, and there is much to do." Having delivered this remark, he detached a single silver) hair from his head, blew it from his fingers, and let it float gently upon the upturned edge of the knife, which was still resting on the table. The hair was divided as readily as had been the bell-cord. I was transfixed with astonishment, for he had c\i(leiitl\- aiincd to exhibit the quality of the blade, though he made no allusion to the feat, but smilingly went on with his discourse: "It is iust a year ago to-night since we first met. l^pou that occasion you uuule an agreement with me which you are in honor bound to keep, and" — here he paused as if to note the effect of his words upon me, then added significantly — " will keep. I lia\ e been at some

THE SAME GIJTTERIXC., MVSTEKIULS KNIFE.

A sivcoxi) ixti;r\ii;w. 3i

])ains to impress upon your mind llie fact tliat I wonld be here to-nij^lit. You responded, and knew that I was cominj^, and yet in obedience to a silly whim, deliberately made a meanin<,dess engagenunt witli no other purpose tlian to violate a solemn obligation. I now insist that you keep your prior engagement with me, l)ut I do not wish that you should be rude to your Iriend, so you had better write him a polite note excusing your- self, and dis])atch it at once."

I saw that he was right, and that there was no sliadow of justification for my conduct, or at least I was subdued b\- his presence, so I wrote the note without delay, and was casting about for some way to send it, when he said : " Fold it, seal it, and address it ; you seem to forget what is proper." I did as he directed, mechanically, and, without thinking what I was doing, handed it to him. He took it naturally, glanced at the super- .scri])tion, went to the door which he opened slightly, and handed the billet as if to some messenger who seemed to be in waiting outside, — then closed and locked the door. Turning toward me with the apparent object of seeing if I was looking, lie deftly drew his knife twice across the front of the door-knob, making a deep cross, and then deposited the knife in his ])ocket, and resumed his seat. '■"

As soon as he was comfortably seated, he again began the conversation: "Now that we have settled the ])reliniinaries, I will ask if yon remember what I required of n-ou a vear ago?" I thought that I did. " Please repeat it; I wish to makf sure that \'ou do, then we will start fair."

" In the first ])lac(.', \"ou were to j)resent uk- with a manu- script " —

"Hardly correct," he interrupted; "I was to acqiuiint \()U with a narrative which is alreadx' in manuscript, accjuaint \(>n with it, read it to yon, if you ])referred not to read it to me" —

"I beg your })ar<lon," I answered; "that is correct. Y<»u were to read the manu.script to me, and during the reading I was to interpose such comments, remarks, or objections, as seemed proper; to embody as interludes, in the manu.script, as my own interpolations, however, and not as jxiri of the original."

'■ I noted afterward tliat tlie door-kiiDh, wliiili wa-> of solid metal, was cut deeplv. as thoiiKli made of putty.

32 KTlDoklll'A.

" \'erv jijood," he replied, *' you have the idea exactly ; proceed."

" I aj^reed that when the readiuj^ had been completed, I would

seal the complete manuscript securely, deposit it in some safe

place, there t(^ remain for thirty years, when it nui>t he published."

"DKIAV MIS KNU'l': TWICE ACROSS THE FRONT OF THE DOOR-KNOB."

"Ju.st SO," he answered; "we understand each other as we should. Before we proceed further, however, can >ou think of any point on which you need enlijj^htenment ? If so, ask such questions as you choo.se, and I will answer them."

I thou^^ht for a moment, but no query occurred to me ; after a pause he said : " Well, if you think of nothincj now, perhaps hereafter questions will occur to you which nou can ask; but as it is late, and you are tired, we will not coninRuce now. I will

A si'CoxD i.\Ti;uvii;\v. 33

see you just one week from to-iii^^^ht, when we will be<,nn. From that time on, we will follow the sul)ject as rapidly as \(ju choose, but see to it that you make no enj;a<;ements that will interfere with our work, for I shall be more exactinjr in the future." I promised, and he rose to go. A sudden im])ulse seized me, and I said: "May I ask one question?" "Certainly."

"What shall I call you?"

"Why call me aught? It is not nece.s.sary in addressing eacli other that any name be used."

" But what are you?" I persisted.

A pained expression for an instant rested np(Mi his face, and

he said, sadly, pausing between the words: " I — Am — The Man

Who— Did— It." "Did what?"

"Ask not; the manuscript will tell )-ou. Be content, Llewel- lyn, and remember this, that I — Am — The — Man."

So saying he bade me good night, opened the d(;or, and disappeared down the broad stair-case.

One week thereafter he appeared promptly, .seated him.self, and producing a roll of manuscript, handed it to me, saving, " I am listening; you may begin to read."

On examination I found each page to be somewhat lana-r than a sheet of letter paper, with the written matter occup\ ing a much smaller space, .so as to leave a wide white border. One hundred pages were in the package. The last sentence ending abruptly indicated that my guest did not expect to complete his ta.sk in one evening, and, I may anticipate by saying that with each successive interview he drew about the same amount of writing from his bosom. Upon attemjning to read tlie manu- script I at first found my.self puzzled by a style of chirography very peculiar and characteristic, but execrably bad. Vainly did I attempt to read it ; even the opening .sentence was not deciphered without long inspection and great difficulty.

The old man, whom I liad promised that I would fulfill the task, ob.serving my discomfiture, relieved me of the charge, and without a word of introduction, read fluentlv as follows:

THE MANUSCRIPT OF I— AM— THE— MAN. chapti:r IV.

A vSKARCH FOR KXOWIJ'.DCK. — THK AUCHPv.MISTIC LF.TTF.R.

I am the man who, unfortunately fur my future liappiness, was dissatisfied with such kncnvledj^e as ccnikl be derived fr(uu ordinar)' books concerning semi-scientific subjects in which I liad long been absorbed, I studied the current works of ni)' da\- on philosophy and chemistr\', hoping therein to find something tangible regarding the relationship that exists between matter and spirit, but studied in vain. Astronomy, history, philosophy and the mysterious, incoherent works of alchemy and occultism were finally appealed to, but likewise failed to satisfy me. These studies were pursued in secret, though I am not aware that any necessity existed for concealment. Be that as it may, at every opportunity I covertly acquainted myself with such alchemical lore as could be obtained either b\' purchase or b\- correspondence with others whom I found to be pursuing investigations in the same direction. A translation of Geber's " De Claritate Alche- mise," by chance came into my possession, and afterwards an original version from the Latin of Bcerhaave's "Elementa Chemiai," published and translated in 1753 by Peter Shaw. This magnificent production threw a flood of light upon the early history of chemistry, being far more elaborate than any modern work. It inspired me with the deepest regard for its talented author, and ultimately introduced me to a brotherhood of adepts, for in this publication, although its author disclaims occultism, is to be found a talisman that will enable an\ earuest searcher after light to become a member of the societ\- ol secret "Chemical Improvers of Natural Philosophy," with which I affiliated as soon as the key was discovered. Then followed a systematic investigation of autlu^rities of the Alchemical

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A sivARcii I'OR kx()\vm:i)(;i':. 37

vSchool, incln(liiio(;clKT, Moricnus, Ro-rcr Hacon, C^cor^^a- Rii)lcy, Raymond Liilh", r.cnuird, CouiU of Trevise, Isaac Hollandus,' Arnoldus de la Villanova, Paracelsus, and others, not oniittin<r the learned researches of the distincruished scientist, Llewellyn"^ I discovered that many talented men are still firm believers in the lost art of alchemy, and that among the followers of tlie "thrice-famed Hermes " are to be found statesmen, cler<ryinen, lawyers, and scientific men who, for various reasons, inx'ariably conceal with great tact their connection with the fraternity of adepts. Some of these men had written scientific treatises of a very different character from lliose circulating among the members of our brotherhood, aiul to their materialistic read- ers it would seem scarcely possible that the authors could be tainted with hallucinations of any description, while others, conspicuous leaders in the church, were seemingly be\ond occult temptation.

The larger num1)er, it was evident, hojied b>- studies of the works of the alchemists, to find the key to the alkahest of \'au Helmont, that is, to discover the Philosopher's vStone, or the Klixir of Life, and from their writings it is plain that tlie inner consciousness of thoughtful and scientific men rebelled against confinement to the narrow bounds of materialistic science, within which they were forced to appear as dogmatic pessimists. To them scientific orthodoxy, acting as a weight, prr)hibited intel- lectual s])eculation, as rank heresy. A few of my co-laborers were expert manipulators, and worked experimentally, following in their laboratories the suggestions of those gifted students who had pored over precious old manuscripts, and had attempted to solve the enigmatical formulas recorded therein, puzzles familiar to students of Hermetic lore. It was thus demonstrated,— for what I have related is history, — that in this nineteenth century there exists a fraternity, the members of which are as earnest in their belief in the truth of Esoteric ])hiiosophv, as were the followers of Hermes himself; saxauls who. in secret, circulate among themselves a literature that the materialism of this self- same nineteenth century has relegated to the deluded and murky periods that produced it.

(^ne da\- a postal package came to my address, this being the manner in which some of our literature circulated, which, on

38 KTIDORHl'A.

examination, I found to be a letter of instruction and advice from some unknown member of our circle. I was alread\' becoming disheartened over the mental confusion into which my studies were leading me, and the contents of the letter, in wliich I was greatly interested, made a lasting impression upon me. It seemed to ha\e been circulating a long time among our members in Europe and America, for it bore numerous marginal notes of various dates, but each and every one of its readers had for one reason or another declined the task therein suggested. From the substance of the paper, which, written exquisitely, >et partook of the ambiguous alchemistic style, it was evident that the author was well versed in alchemy, and, in order that my position may be clearly understood at this turning point in a life of remarkable adventure, the letter is appended in full :

THE ALCHEMISTIC LETTER.

To THK BROTHER ADEPT WHO DARES TRY TO DISCOVER ZOROASTER'S CAVE,

OR THE PHII^OSOPHER'S INTEL-LECTUAL echoes, by MEANS OF WHICH

THKY COMMUNICATE TO ONE ANOTHER KROM THEIR CAVES.

Know thou, that Hermes Trisniegistus did not originate, but he gave to our philosophy his name — the Hermetic Art. Evolved in a dim, mystic age, before antiquity began, it endured through the slowly rolling cycles to be bandied about by the ever-ready flippancy of nineteenth century students. It has lived, because it is endowed with that quality which never dies — truth. Modern philosophy, of which chemistry is but a fragment, draws its sustenance from the prime facts which were revealed in ancient Egypt through Hermetic thought, and fixed by the Hermetic stylus.

"The Hermetic allegories," so various in interpretable susceptibility, led subsequent thinkers into speculations and experimentations, which have resulted profitably to the world. It is not strange that some of the followers of Hermes, especially the more mercurial and imaginative, should have evolved nebulous theories, no longer explainable, and involving recondite spiritual considerations. Know thou that the ultimate on psycho-chemical investigation is the proximate of the infinite. Accordingly, a class came to believe that a projection of natural mental faculties into an advanced state of consciousness called the "wisdom faculty" constitutes the final possibility of Alchemy. The attainment of this exalted condition is still believed practicable by many earnest savants. Once on this lofty plane, the individual would not be tram- melled bv nuiterial obstacles, but would abide in that spiritual ])lacidity which is the exquisite realization of mortal perfection. So exalted, he would be in naked parallelism with Omniscience, and through his illuminated understaiul- ing, could feast his soul on those exalted pleasures which are only less than deific.

Notwithstanding the exploitings of a number of these philosophers, in which, by reason of our inability to comprehend, sense seemed lost in a passage

A SHARCII I'Ok KNOWIJ'.lxVlv 39

of ilicohesive (Ireaint'iv and rtsonaiu-}- of UTiiiinolony, sonif of llu- purest spiritual researches the world has ever known, were made in the dawn of history. The much al)used alcliemical philosophers existed upon a plane, in some respects al)ove the kvel of the science of to-day. Many of them lived for the good of the world only, in an atmosphere above the materialistic hordes that people the wt>rld, and toiling over their crucibles and alembics, died in their cells " uttering no voice." Take, for example, Eirena;us Philalethes, who, born in 1623, lived contemporaneously with Robert Hoyle. A fragment from his writings will illustrate the purpose which impelled the searcher for the true light of alchemy to record his discoveries in allegories, and we have ^ no right to question the honesty of his utterances :

"The Searcher of all hearts knows that I write the truth; nor is there any cause to accuse me of eiivv. I \\v\lv uilh an unterrified quill in an unheard of style, to the honor of Ciod, to the profit of my neighbors, with contempt of the world and its riches, because Elias, the artist, is already born, and now glorious things are ileclared of the city of God. I dare affirm that I do possess more riches than the whole known world is worth, but I can not make use of it l)ecause of the snares of knaves. I disdain, loathe, and detest the idolizing of silver and gold, by which the pomps and vanities of the world are celebrated. Ah! filthv evil! Ah! vain nothingness! Believe ye that I conceal the art out of envv ? No, verily, I protest to you ; I grieve from the very bottom of my soul that we (alchemists) are driven like vagabonds from the face of the Loril throughout the earth. But what need of many words? The thing that we have seen, taught, and made, which we have, possess, and know, that we do declare; being moved with compassion for the studious, and with indignation of gold, silver, and precious stones. Believe me, the time is at the door, I feel it in spirit, when we, adeptists, shall return from the four corners of the earth, nor shall we fear any snares that are laid against our lives, but we shall give thanks to the Lord our God. I would to God that ever}- ingenious man in the whole earth understood this science; then it would be valued only for its wisdom, and virtue only would be had in honor."

Of course there was a more worldly class, and a large contingent of mer- cenar}' impostors (as science is always encumbered), parasites, whose animus was shamefullv unlike the purity of true esoteric psychologists. These men devoted their lives to experimentation for selfish advancement. They con- structed alchemical outfits, and carried on a ceaseless inquiry into the nature of solvents, and studied their influences on earthly bodies, their ultimate object being the discovery of the Philosopher's Stone, and the alkahest which Rcerhaave asserts was never discovered. Their records were often a verl)ose melange, purposely so written, no doubt, to cover their tracks, and to make themselves conspicuous. Other Hermetic believers occupied a more elevated position, and connected the intellectual with the material, hoping to gain by their philosophy and science not only gold and silver, which were secondary considerations, but the highest literary achievement, the Magnum Opus. Others still sought to draw from Astrology and Magic the secrets that would lead them to their ambitious goal. Thus there were degrees of fineness in a fraternity, wdiich the science of to-day must recognize and admit.

Bcerhaave, the illustrious, respected Geber, of the alchemistic school, and none need feel comproiniscd in admiring tlic talented alchemists who. like

40 KTIDORIIPA.

Geber, wrouj(ht in the twilight of iiiorii for the eoiiiiiiji world's j(i>o<l. W'c are now enjoyinji a fraj<inent of the ultimate results of their genius an<l industry in the materialistic outcomes of present-day chemistry, to be followeil bv others more valuable; and at last, when mankind is ripe in the wisdom faculty, by spiritual contentment in the complacent furtherings beyond. Allow me briefly to refer to a few men of the alchemistic type whose records may be considered with advantage.

Rhasis, a conspicuous alchemist, born in 850, first mentioned orpiment, borax, compounds of iron, copper, arsenic, and other similar substances. It is said, too, that he discovered the art of making brandy. About a century later, Alfarabe (killed in 950), a great alchemist, astonished the King of Syria with his profound learning, and excited the admiration of the wise men of the East by his varied accomplishments. Later, Albertus Magnus (born 12(^5), noted for his talent and skill, believed firmly in the doctrine of transmutation. Ilis beloved pupil, Thomas Aquinas, gave us the word amalgam, and it still serves us. Contemporaneously with these lived Roger Bacon (born 1214), who was a man of most extraordinary ability. There has never been a greater English intellect (not excepting his illustrious namesake, Lord Bacon), and his pene- trating mind delved deeper into nature's laws than that of any successor. He told us of facts concerning the sciences, that scientific men can not fully comprehend to-day; he told us of other things that lie beyond the science ])rovings of to-day, that modern ])hilos()])hers can not grasp. He was an enthusiastic believer in the Hermetic philosophy, and such were his erudition and advanced views, that his ])rother friars, through jealousy and superstition, had him thrown into prison — a common fate to men who in those da3S dared to think ahead of their age. Despite (as some would say) of his mighty reasoning power and splendid attainments, he believed the Philosopher's Stone to be a reality; he believed the secret of indefinite prolongation of life abode in alchemy; that the future could be predicted by means of a mirror which he called Almuchese, and that by alchemy an adept could produce pure gold. He asserted that bv means of Aristotle's "Secret of Secrets," pure gold can l)e made; gold even purer and finer than what men now know as gold. In connection with other predictions he made an assertion that may with other seemingly unreasonable predictions be verified in time to come. He said : " It is equally possible to construct cars which may be set in motion with marvelous rapidity, independently of horses or other animals." He declared that the ancients had done this, and he believed the art might be revived.

Following came various enthusiasts, such as Raymond, the ephemeral (died 1315), who flared like a meteor into his brief, brilliant career; Arnold de Villanova (1240), a celebrated adept, whose books were burned by the Incjuisi- tion on account of the heresy they taught; Nicholas Flamel, of France (1350), loved by the people for his charities, the wonder of his age (our age will not admit the facts) on account of the vast fortune he amassed without visible means or income, outside of alchemical lore ; Johannes de Rupecissus, a man of such remarkable daring that he even (1357) reprimanded Pope Innocent VI., for which he was pronijitly im])risoned ; Basil Valentine (1410), the author of many works, and the man who introduced antimony (antimonaches) into medicine ; Isaac of Holland who, with his son, skillfully made artificial gems that could not be distinguished from the natural ; Bernard Trevison (born

A SIvARCH I'OR KN()\VM:I)0K. 41

1406), who spent |30,cxx> in the study of alclieiiiy, out of nuu-li of whicli he was cheated by cruel alchemic pretenders, for even in that day tliere were jdenty of rogues to counterfeit a good thing. I'nder stress of his strong alchemic convictions, Thomas Dalton placed his head on the block by order of the virtuous (?) and conservative Thomas Herbert, 'squire to King Kdward ; Jacob Rohnie (born 1575), the sweet, pure spirit of Christian mysticism, "The Voice of Heaven," than wlioni none stood higher in true alchemy, was a Christian, alchemist, theosophist ; Roliert Boyle, a conspicuous alchemical philosopher, in 1662 published his " Defense of the Doctrine touching the Spring and Weight of the Air," and illustrated his arguments by a series of ingenious and beautiful experiments, that stand to-day so high in the estimation of scientific men, that his remarks are copied verbatim Ijy our highest authorities, and his apparatus is the best yet devised for the purpose. Boyle's " Law " was evolved and carefully defined fourteen years before Mariotte's " Discours de la Nature de 1' Air " appeared, which did not, however, prevent rrench and German scientific men from giving the credit to Mariotte, and they still follow the false teacher who boldly jii rated not only Boyle's ideas, but stole his apparatus.

Then a])]ieare(l sucli men as Paracelsus (born 1493), t'lc celebrated physi- cian, who tauglit that occultism (esoteric ])hilosophy) was superior to exj)eri- mental che-nustry in enlightening us concerning the transmutation of baser metals into gold and silver; and CrUepi)o Francisco (born 1627), who wrote a beautiful treatise on " lUementary Spirits," which was copied without credit by Compte de Gabalis. It seems incredible that the man (Guepjjo I'Vanciscoj, whose sweet spirit-thoughts are revivified and breathe anew in " I'ndine " ami " The Rape of the Lock," should have been thrown into a prison to jierish as a Hermetic follower; and this should teach us not to question the earnestness of those who left us as a legacy the beauty and truth so abundantlv found in pure alchemy.

These and many others, cotemporaries, some conspicuous, and others whose names do not shine in written history, contributed incalculablv to the grand aggregate of knowledge concerning the divine secret which enriched the world. Compare the benefits of Hermetic philosophy with the result of bloody wars ambitiously waged by .self-exacting tyrants — tvrants whom liistory applauds as heroes, but whom we consider as butchers. .Among the workers in alchemy are enumerated nobles, kings, and even popes. Pope John XXH. was an alchemist, which accounts for his bull against impostors, promulgated in order that true students might not be discredited ; and King Frederick of Naples sanctioned the art, and protected its devotees.

At last. Count Cagliostro, the chequered "Josepli Balsanio " (born 1743), who combined alchemy, magic, astrology, sleight of hand, niesmerism, I'ree Masonry, and remarkable personal accomplishments, that altogether have never since been e([ualled, burst upon the world. I'ocusing the ga/e of the church, kings, and the commons upon himself, in many resjjccts the most audacious pretender that histon.- records, lie raised the Hermetic art to a dazzling height, and finally buried it in a blaze of splendor as he passed from existence beneath a mantle of shame. As a meteor streams into view from out the star mists of space, and in corrnscating glory sinks into the sea. Cagliostro blazed into the sky of the uiueteenth century, from the nebuUe of alchemistic

4J IvTllXJRlIl'A.

speculation, ami txlinguishfd both himself and his science in the li^ht of the risin>j sun of materialism. Caj^liostro the visionary, the poet, the inspired, the erratic comet in the universe of intellect, perished in prison as a mountebank, and then the plodding chemist of to-day, with his tedious mechanical methods, and cold, unresponsive, materialistic dogmas, arose from the ashes, and sprang into prominence.

Read the story backward, and you shall see that in alchemy we behold the beginning of all the sciences of to-day ; alchemy is the cradle that rocked them. Fostered with necromancy, astrology, occultism, and all the progeny of mvstic dreamery, the infant sciences struggled for existence through the dark ages, in care of the once persecuted and now traduced alchemist. The world owes a monument to-day more to Hermetic heroes, than to all other influences and instrumentalities, religion excepted, combined, for our present civilization is largely a legacy from the alchemist. Begin with Hermes Trismegistus, and close with Joseph Balsamo, and if you are inclined towards science, do not criticise too severely their verbal logorrhea, and their romanticism, for your science is treading backward; it will encroach upon their field again, and you may have to unsay your words of hasty censure. These men fulfilled their mis.sion, and did it well. If they told more than men now think they knew, they also knew more than they told, and more than modern ])hilosophy embraces. They could not live to see all the future they eagerh- hoped for, but they started a future for mankind that will far exceed in sweetness and light the most entrancing visions of their most imaginative dreamers. They spoke of the existence of a "red elixir," and while they wrote, the barbarous world about them ran red with blood, — blood of the pure in heart, blood of the saints, blood of a Saviour; and their allegory and wnsdom formuUt were recorded in blood of their own sacrifices. They dreamed of a "white elixir" that is yet to bless mankind, and a brighter day for man, a period of peace, happiness, long life, contentment, good will and brotherly love, and in the name of this " white elixir " they directed the world towards a vision of divine light. FIven pure gold, as they told the materialistic world who worship gold, was penetrated and whelmed by this subtle, superlatively refined spirit of matter. Is not the <l;iy of the allegorical "white elixir" nearly at hand? Would that it were !

I sav to you now, brothers of the nineteenth century, as one speaking by authoritv to you, cease (some of you) to study this entrancing past, look to the future by grasping the present, cast aside (some of you) the alchemical lore of other days, give up your loved allegories; it is a duty, you must relinquish them. There is a richer field. Do not delay. Unlock this mystic door that stands hinged and ready, waiting the touch of men who can interpret the talisman; place before mankind the knowledge that lies behind its rivets. In the secret lodges that have preserved the wisdom of the days of luioch and Ivlias of Ivgypt, who propagated the Egyptian Order, a branch of your ancient brotherhood, is to be found concealed much knowledge that should now be spread before the world, and added to the treasures of our circle of adepts. This cabalistic wisdom is not recorded in books nor in manuscri])t, but has been purposely preserved from the uninitiated, in the unreadable brains of unresponsive men. Those who are selected to act as carriers thereof, are. as a rule, like dumb water bearers, or the dead sheet of paper that mechanically

A SI'iARCn I'OR K.\()\VIj.;i)C,i.;.

43

preserves an n.sjnralu.n ,k.riv.,l in„n nnn,ls unseen: Ihev serve a purpose as . clu .1 nK-elKuueallyeonunits to n.cn.ory a blank verse toVepeat to'others who n, tun. co:„nnt to repeat a^ain neither of then, speakin,. understamlin; Search ye these huh en paths, for the <lay of n.ental liberation approache and pubhsh o the world all that is loeked within the doors of t m ant ouaTed organ.zat.on. The world is nearly ripe for the wisdom faculty. an<l m ntre readv ,,,„ 1 the .^olden threads that n.ystic wisdon, has inwoven h" .eb of secret knowledge. Look for knowledge where I have indicated ad to ga.n :t do not hes,tate to swear allegiance to this sacred order, for sc^ .u "u St do o ga:u cnlran.. to the brotherhood, and then you n.ust ac what „,e w. call the trauor. Vou will, however, be doing a sacred dutv. for the v r -! l'-^- 1 — -ty will be the gainer. " Peace on Karth. Good Will to Ma " will be cCser to mankind, and at last, when the sign appears, the " white elixir'" Cr .r; Tv '^^;"^"^^«"-l= '' -" '— a reality. In the name o , e Great Mysbc ^ase-Man, go thou into these lodges, learn of their secrets and spread their treasures before those who can interpret them.

Here thi.s letter ended. It wa.s evident that the writer referred to a .secret society into wliicli I conld probably enter- and takino- the advice, I did not hesitate, but applied at once for membership. I determined, regardless of con.seqnence, to follow the sn.cro.estion of the unknown writer, and bv .so doincr for I accepted their pled-es, I invited mv destinv '

xAIy gne.st of the ma.ssive forehead' pan.sed' for a moment, stroked his lono- white beard, and then, after casting an inouir- incr glance on me, asked, " Shall I read on?"

"Yes," I replied, and The-Man-Who-Did-Tt. proceeded as tollows :

CHAPTER V.

THK WRITIXCi OK MY CONFESSION.

Havinj^ become a ineinber of the Secret Society as directed by the writer of the letter 1 ha\e just read, and liavintj;^ obtained tlie secrets hinted at in the in\stic directions, my next desire was to find a sechided spot where, without interruption, I could prepare for publication what I had gathered surreptitiously in the lodges of the fraternity I designed to betray. This I entitled " My Confession." Alas! why did my evil genius prompt me to write it? Why did not some kind angel withhold my hand from the rash and wicked deed? All I can urge in defense or palliation is that I was infatuated by the fatal words of the letter, " You must act what men will call the traitor, but humanity will be the gainer."

In a section of the state in which I resided, a certain creek forms the boundary line between two townships, and also between two counties. Crossing this creek, a much traveled road stretches east and west, uniting the extremes of the great state. Two villages on this road, about four miles apart, situated on opposite sides of the creek, also present themselves to m>- memory, and midway between them, on the north side of the road, was a substantial farm house. In going west from the easternmost of these villages, the traveler begins to descend from the very center of the town. In no place is the grade steep, as the road lies between the spurs of the hill abutting upon the valley that feeds the creek I have mentioned. Having reached the valley, the road winds a short distance to the right, then turning to the left, cro.sses the stream, and imme- diately begins to climb the western hill ; here the ascent is more difficult, for the road lies diagonally over the edge of the hill. A mile of travel, as I recall the scene, sometimes up a steep, and again among rich, level farm lands, and then on the very height, close to the road, within a few feet of it, appears

44

Till- WRITIXC, OI- MV CUXri-SSION.

45

tlic square structure wind, was, at tlic time I „K-ntion, known as the Stone Tavern. Uu tl.e opposite side of tl.e road were located extensive stables, and a ^^rain barn. In the northeast chani])er of that stone buildin- durin- a summer in the twen ties, I wrote for publication the description of the nustic work that my oath should have made forever a secret, a sacred trust I am the man wlio wantonly committed the deplorable act' Under the infatuation of that alchemical manuscript, I strove to show the world that I could and would do that whicl, mi<d,t never benefit me in the least, but might serve humanitv '^t was late. I was not a bad man. neither malicr„itv, avarice nor anil)ition formino: a part of mv nature. I was a close student, of a rather retiring disposition, a stone-mason bv trade careless and indifferent to public honors, and so thriftless that many tnfling neighborhood debts had accumulated against me What I have reluctantly told, for I am forbidden to crive the names of the localities, comprises an abstract of part'' of the record of my early life, and will introduce the extraordinarv narrative which follows. That I liave spoken the truth and in no manner overdrawn, will be silently evidenced bv hundreds of brethren, botli of tlic occult societv and the fraternal brother- hood, with which I united, who can (if thev will) testifv to the accuracy of the narrative. They know the storv of mv crime and disgrace; only myself and God know the full retribution that followed.

CHAPTER VI.

KIDNAPPED.

The events just narrated occurred in the prime of my life, and are partly matters of publicity. My attempted breach of faith in the way of disclosintr their secrets was naturally infamous in the eves of mv societv brethren, who endeavored to prevail upon me to relent of my design which, after writing my "Confession," I made no endeavor to conceal. Their importunities and threaten- ings had generally been resisted, however, and with an obliquity that can not be easily explained, I persisted in my unreasonable design. I was blessed as a husband and father, but neither the thought of home, wife, nor child, checked me in my inexplicable course. I was certainly irresponsible, perhaps a monomaniac, and yet on the subject in which I was absorbed, I preserved my mental equipoise, and knowingly followed a course that finally brought me into the deepest slough of trouble, and lost to me forever all that man loves most dearly. An overruling spirit, perhaps the shade of one of the old alchemists, possessed me, and in the face of obstacles that would have caused most men to reflect, and retrace their steps, I madly rushed onward. The influence that impelled me, whatever it may have been, was irre- sistible. I apparently acted the part of agent, subject to an ever-present master essence, and under this dominating spirit or demon my mind was powerless in its subjection. M\- soul was driven imperiously by that impelling and indescribable something, and was as passive and irres])onsible as lyco])odium that is borne onward in a steady current of air. Methods were vainly sought bv those who loved me, brethren of the lodge, and others who endeavored to induce me to change my headstrong purpose, but I could neither accept their counsels nor heed their forebodings. Summons by law were served on me in order to disconcert me, and my numerous small debts became the pretext for legal warrants, until at last all my papers (excepting

46

KIDXAriMvI). 47

my "Confession "), and my person also, were sei/x-d, njion an exe- cution served by a constable. Minor claims were quickly satisfied, but when I regained my li])ert\-, the aggression continued. ICven arson was resorted to, and tlie printing office that held my manu- script was fired one night, that the obnoxious revelation which I persisted in putting into print, might be destroyed. Finallv I found myself separated by process of law from home and friends, an inmate of a jail. My opponents, as I now came to consider them, had confined me in prison for a debt of only two dollars, a sufficient amount at that time, in that state, for my incarcer- ation. Smarting under the humiliation, my spirit became .still more rebellious, and I now, perhaps justly, came to view myself as a martyr. It had been at first as.serted that I had stolen a shirt, but I was not afraid of any penalty that could be laid on me for this trumped-up charge, believing that the imputation and the arrest would be shown to be designed as willful oppres- sion. Therefore it was, that when this contemptible arraignment had been swept aside, and I was freed before a Justice of the Peace, I experienced more than a little surprise at a rearrest, and at finding myself again thrown into jail. I knew that it had been decreed by my brethren that I nnist retract and destrov my *' Confession," and this fact made me the more determined to prevent its destruction, and I persisted sullenly in pursuing mv course. On the evening of August 12th, i(S26, m\- jailer's wife informed me that the debt for which I had been incarcerated had been paid by unknown "friends," and that I could depart; and I accepted the statement without (juestion. Upon my stepping from the door of the jail, however, my arms were firmly grasped by two persons, one on each side of me, and before I could realize the fact that I was being kidnapped, I was thrust into a closed coach, which immediateh- rolled awa\-, l)ut not until I made an outcry which, if heard by anyone, was unheeded.

" For your own sake, be quiet," said one of my companions in confinement, for the carriage was drajjed to exclude the light, and was as dark as a dungeon. My spirit rebelled; I felt that I was on the brink of a remarkable, perhaps perilous e.xperience, and I indignantly replied by asking:

" What have I done that you should presume forcibly to im])rison me? Am I not a freeman of America?"

48 F.TinoRHrA.

" WTiat have you done?" he answered. " Have you not bound vourself by a series of vows that are sacred and should be inviolable, and have you not broken them as no other man has done before you? Have you not betrayed your trust, and merited a severe judgment? Did you not voluntarily ask admission into our ancient brotherhood, and in good faith were you not initiated into our sacred mysteries? Did you not obligate \ourself before man, and on your sacred honor promise to preserve our secrets?"

"I did," I replied; "but previously I had sworn before a higher tribunal to scatter this precious wisdom to the world."

" Yes," he said, " and you know full well the depth of the self-sought solemn oath that you took with us — more solemn than that prescribed by any open court on earth."

" This I do not deny," I said, " and yet I am glad that I accom- plished my object, even though you have now, as is evident, the power to pronounce my sentence."

"You should look for the death sentence," was the reply, "but it has been ordained instead that }ou are to be given a lengthened life. You should expect bodily destruction ; but on the contrary, \ou will pass on in consciousness of earth and earthly concerns when we are gone. Your name will be known to all lands, and vet from this time you will be unknown. For the welfare of future humanity, you will be thrust to a height in our order that will annihilate you as a mortal being, and yet you will exist, suspended between life and death, and in that intermediate state will know that you exist. You have, as you confess, merited a severe punishment, but we can only punish in accordance with an unwritten law, that instructs the person punished, and elevates the human race in consequence. You stand alone among mortals in that you have openly attempted to give broadly to those who have not earned it, our most sacred property, a property that did not belong to you, property that you have only been permitted to handle, that has been handed from man to man from before the time of Solomon, and which belongs to no one man, and will continue to pass in this way from one to another, as a hallowed trust, until there are no men, as men now exist, to receive it. You will soon go into the shadows of darkness, and will learn many of the mysteries of life, the undeveloped mysteries that

KIDXAI'l'IvI). 49

are withheld from xoiir tVllows, hut wliicli nou, who liave been so presumptuous aud auxious for knowlcdj^e, are destiued to possess aud solve. Vou will fiud secrets that uiau, as uiau is uow coustituted, cau uot yet discover, aud yet which the future uiau uuist ,i;aiu and l)e instructed in. ;\s \ou have sowed, .so shall you reaj). Vou wished to become a distributor of knowl- edge ; you .shall now by bodily trial aud mental suffering obtain unsought knowledge to distribute, and in time to come vou will be commanded to make your discoveries known. As >-our ])ath- way is surely laid out, .so nnist )ou walk. It is ordained ; to rebel is useless."

"Who has pronounced this sentence?" I asked.

"A judge, neither of heaven nor of earth."

"You speak in enigmas."

" No ; I speak openly, and the truth. Our brotherhood is linked with the past, and clasps hands with the antediluvians; the flood scattered the races of earth, but did not disturb our secrets. The great love of wisdom has from generation to generation led selected members of our organization to dej^ths of study that our open work does not touch upon, and behind our highest officers there stand, in the occult shades between the here and the hereafter, unknown and unseen agents who are initiated into .secrets above and beyond tlio.se known to the ordinary craft. Those who are introduced into the.se inner recesses acquire superhuman conceptions, aud do not give an open sign of fellow.ship; they need no tali.smau. They walk our streets possessed of powers unknown to men, they concern themselves as mortals in the affairs of men, and even their breth- ren of the initiated, open order are unaware of their exalted condition. The means by which they have been instructed, their several individualities as well, have been concealed, because publicity would destroy their value, and injure humanity's cause."

Silence followed these vague di.sclosures, and the carriage rolled on. I was mystified and alarmed, and \x-t I knew that, whatever might be the end of this nocturnal ride, I had invited it — yes, merited it — and I steeled myself to hear the .sentence of my judges, in whose hands I was powerless. The per.sons on the seat opposite me continued their conversation in low tones, audible only to themselves. An individual by my side neither

'iO KTIDORIirA.

moved nor spoke. Tlicre were four of us in the carriage, as I learned intuitively, althouj^h we were surrounded by utter dark- ness. At lenijth I addressed the companion beside me, for the silence was unbearable. Friend or enemy though he might be, anything rather than this long silence. " How long shall we continue in this carriage?"

He made no reply.

After a time I again spoke.

" Can \'OU not tell me, comrade, how long our journey wall last? When shall we reach our destination?"

Silence onl\-.

Putting out my hand, I ventured to touch ni\- mate, and found that he was tightly strapped, — bound upright to the seat and the back of the carriage. Leather thongs held him firmly in position; and as I pondered over the mystery, I thought to myself, if I make a disturbance, they will not hesitate to manacle me as .securely. My custodians seemed, however, not to exercise a guard o\er me, and yet I felt that they were certain of my inability to escape. If the man on the seat was a prisoner, why was he so reticent? win- did he not answer my cjuestions? I came to the conclusion that he nnist be gagged as well as bound. Then I determined to find out if this were so. I began to realize more forcibly that a terrible sentence must have been meted me, and I half hoped that I could get from my partner in captivity some information regarding our destination. vSliding my hand cautiously along his chest, and under his chin, I intended to remove the gag from his mouth, when I felt my flesh creep, for it came in contact with the cold, rigid flesh of a corpse. The man was dead, and stiff.

The shock unnerved me. I had begun to experience th-e results of a .severe mental strain, ])artly induced by the recent ini])risonment and extended previous persecution, and parth' b\ the mysterious significance of the language in which I had recently been addressed. The sentence, " You will now go into the X'alley of the Shadow of Death, and learn the mysteries of life," kept ringing through my head, and even then I sat beside a corpse. After this discovery I remained for a time in a semi- stupor, in a state of profound dejection, — how long I can not say. Then I experienced an inexplicable change, such as I imagine

KIDN \I'I'I-;i).

51

comes over a condemned man wilhont liopc of reprieve, and I became unconcerned as a man nii-lit who had acccj)ted his destiny, and stoically determined to await it. Perhaps moments passed, it may have been lionrs, and then indifference -^ave place to reviving curiosity. I realized that I conld die onlv^once, and r coolly and complacentlv revolved tlie matter, ,specnlatin<('over my possible fate. As I look back on tlie nioht in wliich ? rode be.side that dead man, facing the mysterious agents of an all- powerful judge, I marvel over a mental condition that permitted me finally to rest in peace, and slumber in unconcern. So I did, however, and after a period, the length of which I am not able' to estimate, I awoke, and soon thereafter tiie carriage stopped, and our horses were changed, after which our journey wa.s resumed, to continue hour after hour, and at last I slept again, leaning back in the corner. Suddenly I was violently shaken from slumber, and commanded to alight. It was in the gray of morning, and before I could realize what was happening, I was transferred by my captors to another carriage, and the dead man also was rudely hustled along and thrust beside me, m>' compan- ions speaking to him as though he were alive. Indeed, as I look back on these maneuvers, I perceive that, to all appearances, I was one of the abducting party, and our actions were really such as to induce an obser\'er to believe that this dead man was an obstinate prisoner, and myself one of his official guards. The drivers of the carriages seemed to give us no attention, but they sat upright and unconcerned, and certainly neither of them interested himself in our transfer. The second carriage, like that other previously described, was securely clo.sed. and our journey was continued. The darkness was as of a dungeon. It may have been days, I could not tell anything about the pas.sage of time; on and on we rode. Occasionally food and drink were handed in, but my captors held to their course, and at last I was taken from the vehicle, and transferred to a block-house.

I had been carried rapidly and in secret a hundred or more miles, perhaps into another state, and probably all traces of my journey were effectually lost to outsiders. I was in the hands of men who implicitly obeyed the orders of their superiors, masters whom they had never seen, and j^robably did not know. I needed no reminder of the fact that I had violated every sacred pledge

52

I-:TII)nKHl'.\.

voluntarily made to the craft, and now that tliey held me power- less, I well knew that, whatever the punishment assi<(ned, I had invited it, and could not prevent its fulfillment. That it would be severe, I realized ; that it would not be in accordance with ordinary human law, I accepted.

Had I not in secret, in m\' little room in that obscure vStone Tavern, engrossed on paper the mystic sentences that never

I WAS TAKEN FROM THE VEHICLE, AND TKANSEERRED TO A HI.OCK-HOrSK.

before had been penned, and were unknown excepting to per- sons initiated into our sacred mysteries? Had I not previously, in the most solemn manner, before these words had been imparted to my keeping, sworn to keep them inviolate and secret? and had I not deliberately broken that sacred vow, and scattered the hoarded sentences broadcast? My part as a brother in this fraternal organization w^as that of the holder only of property that belonged to no man, that had been handed from one to another through the ages, sacredly cherished, and faithfulh- protected by men of many tongues, always considered a trust.

KIDNAPPI',!).

53

a chari^e of honor, and never before betrayed. M\- erinie was deep and dark. I shnddered.

"Come what may," I mused, reflecting; over m\- ])errid\-, "I am ready for the penalty, and my fate is deserved; it can not but be a righteous one."

The words of the occupant of the carriage occurred to me again and again; that one sentence kept ringing in mv brain; I could not dismiss it: "You have been tried, convicted, and we are of those appointed to carry out the sentence of the judges." The black silence of m>- lonely cell beat again"st nie ; I could feel the absence of sound, I could feel the dismal weight of nothingness, and in my solitude and distraction I cried out in anguish to the invisible judge : " I am ready for mv .sentence, whether it be death or imprisonment for life"; and .still the iurther words of the occupant of the carriage pa.s.sed tlirough my mind: "You will now go into the Valley of the vShadow of Death, and will learn the mysteries of Life."

Then I slept, to awake and sleep again. I kept no note of time ; it may have been days or weeks, .so far as my record could determine. An attendant came at intervals to minister to my wants, always ma.sked completely, ever silent.

That I was not entirely .sej^arated from mankind, however, I felt assured, for occasionalh- sounds of voices came to me from without. Once I ventured to shout aloud, hoping to attract attention ; but the persons whom I felt assured overheard me, ])aid no attention to my lonely cry. At last one night, my door opened abruptly, and three men entered.

" Do not fear," said their spokesman, " we aim to protect vou ; keep .still, and soon you will be a free man."

I con.sented quietly to accompany them, for to refu.se would have been in vain; and I was conducted to a boat, which I found contained a corpse — the one I had journeyed with, I suppose — and embarking, we were silently rowed to the middle of the river, our cour.se being diagonally from the .shore, and the dead man was thrown overboard. Then our boat returned to the desolate bank.

Thrusting me into a carriage, that, on our return to the river bank we found awaiting us, my captors gave a signal, and I was driven awav in the darkness, as silently as before, and our journey

54 KTIDORHI'A.

was continued I believe tor fiilK' two (lass. I was aj;aiii confined in another log cabin, with but one door, and destitute of windows. My attendants were masked, they neither spoke to me as they day after day supplied my wants, nor did they give me the least information on any subject, until at last I abandoned all hope of ever regaining ni\- libert)'.

THE DEAD MAN WAS THROWN OVERBOARD.

CHAPTI-.R \'II.

A WILD XKiHT. — I AM I'RIvMATrRlCIA' AGKD.

In the (k'])tlis of ni<^iit I was awakened by a noise made by tile openin^^^ of a door, and one b)- one seven masked figures silenth' stalked into ni)- prison. Each bore a lif^hted torch, and they passed me as I lay on the floor in m\- clothes (for I luul no beddint^), and ranj^ed themselves in a line. I arose, and seated myself as directed to do, npon the onh- stool in the room. Swint^int^ into a semi-circle, the weird line wonnd about me, and from the one seat on which I rested in the center of the room, I gazed successively upon seven pairs of gleaming eyes, each pair directed at myself; and as I turned from one to another, the black cowl of each deepened into darkness, and grew more hideous.

" Men or devils," I cried, "do your worst! Make me, if such is your will, as that sunken corpse beside which I was once seated ; but cease your persecutions. I have atoned for m\- indiscretions a thousand fold, and this .suspense is unbearable ; I demand to know what is to be my doom, and I desire its fulfilment."

Then one stepped forward, facing me squarely, — the others closed together around him and me. Raising his forefinger, he pointed it close to m\- face, and as his sharp eyes glittered from behind the black mask, piercing through me, he slowly said : "Why do you not say brothers?"

"Horrible," I rejoined; "stop this mockery. Have I not suffered enough from your persecutions to make me reject that word as applied to yourselves? You can but murder; do your duty to your unseen masters, and end this prolonged torture !"

" Brother," said the spokesman, " you well know that the sacred rules of our order will not j^crmit us to murder any human being. We exist to benefit hunuinity, to lead the way- ward back across the burning desert into the pathways of the

5R IvTIDOklll'A.

ri^litcous ; not to destroy or persecute a l)rotlier. ( )urs is an eleemosynary institution, instructinj^ its members, helping them to seek happiness. Von are now expiating the crime you have committed, and the good in your spirit rightfully revolts against the bad, for in divulging to the world our mystic signs and brotherly greetings, you have sinned against yourself more than against others. The sting of conscience, the bitings of remorse punish you."

" True," I cried, as the full significance of what he said burst upon me, "too true; but I bitterly repent my treachery. Others can ne\'er know how my soul is harrowed by the recollection of the enormity of that breach of confidence. In spite of my open, careless, or defiant bearing, my heart is humble, and my spirit cries out for mercy. By night and b\- day I have in secret cursed myself for heeding an unhallowed mandate, and I have long looked forward to the judgment that I should suffer for my perfidy, for I have appreciated that the day of reckoning would surely appear. I do not rebel, and I recall my wild language ; I recant my 'Confession,' I renounce myself! I say to you in all sincerity, brothers, do your duty, only I beg of you to slay me at once, and end my suspense. I await m)- doom. What might it be?"

Grasping my hand, the leader said : " You are ready as a member of our order; we can now judge you as we have been commanded; had you persisted in calling lis devils in >our mistaken frenzv, we should have been forced to reason with )-ou until you returned again to us, and became one of us. Our judgment is for you onh- ; the world must not now know its nature, at least so far as we are concerned. Those you see here, are not your judges ; we are agents sent to labor wath you, to draw you back into our ranks, to bring you into a condition that will enable you to carry out the sentence that )'ou have drawn iipon yourself, for you must be your own doomsman. In the first place, we are directed to gain your voluntary consent to leave this locality. You can no longer take part in affairs that interested you before. To the people of this State, and to your home, and kindred, you must become a stranger for all time. Do you consent?"

" Yes," I answered, for I knew that I must ac([uicsce.

A WIIJ) MCiri'.

57

" In tiK- iK'xt place-, vou nmst ]iel|. us in remove all traces of vour identity. Von must, so far as the world is concerned, leave yonr body where you have apparently been drowned,' for a world's benefit, a harmless mockery to deceive the people, and also to make an example for ..tliers that are weak. Are' vou ready?"

" Ves."

"Then remove your clothin-, and replace it with this suit." .

I obeyed, and chan<,-ed my .t^annents, receiving- others in' return. One of the party then, takincr from beneatii his crown a box containing several bottles of liquids, proceeded arrfullv to mix and compound them, and then to ])aint mv face with the combination, which after being mixed, formed a clear solution.

^ "Do not fear to wash;" said the spokesman, "the effect of tliis lotion is permanent enough to stav until vou are well out of this State."

I passed my hand over my face; it was drawn into wrinkles as a film of gelatine might have been shrivelled under the influence of a strong tannin or astringent liquid ; beneath mv fingers it felt like the furrowed face of a very old man, but I experienced no pain. I vainly tried to smooth the wrinkles; immediately upon removing the pressure of my hand, the fur- rows reappeared.

Next, another applied a colorless liquid freelv to mv hair and beard; he rubbed it well, and afterward wiped it drv with a towel. A mirror was thrust beneath my gaze. I started back, tlie transformation was complete. My appearance had entirely changed. My face had become aged and wrinkled, mv hair as white as snow.

I cried aloud in amazement: "Am I sane, is this a dream?" " It is not a dream ; ])ut, under methods that are in exact accordance with natural physiological laws, we have been enabled to transform vour appearance from that of one in the prime of manhood into the semblance of an old man, and that, too, without impairment of your vitality." Another of the masked men opened a curious little casket that I perceived was surmounted by an alembic and other alchemical figures, and embossed with an Oriental design. He drew from it a lamp

58

I'.TIDOklll'A.

which lie lij^hted with a taper; the flame that resulted, first pale blue, theu yellow, uext violet aud fiually red, seeuied to becouie uiore weird and ghastly with each uiutatiou, as I gazed spell- bound upon its fantastic changes. Then, after these transform- ations, it burned steadilv with the final strange blood-red hue.

"A MIKKOK WAS THRUST BENEATH MV GAZE.

and he mnv held over the blaze a tiny cup, \vliich, in a few moments, commenced to sputter and then smoked, exhaling a curious, epipolic, semi-luminous \apor. 1 was commanded to inhale the vapor.

I hesitated ; the thought rushed upon me, " Now I am another person, so cleverly disguised that even my own friends would perhaps not know me, this vapor is designed to suffocate me, and mv bodv, if found, will not now be known, and could not be identified when discovered."

'' Do not fear," said the spokesman, as if divining my thought, " there is no danger," and at once I realized, by quick reasoning, that if m\- death were demanded, in\- Ixxlx niiglit long

A WILD XKillT. 5g

since have been easily dcstrovcd, and all this ceremony would have been nnnecessan-.

I hesitated no lon-er, but drew into my lun-s the vapor that arose from the m>-sterious cup, freely expandin- mv chest several times, and then asked, "Is not that enou-h ?" ' Despair now overcame me. My voice, no longer the full, strong tone of a man m middle life and perfect strength, squeaked and quavered as If impaired by palsy. I had seen my i„,age in a mirror, an' old man with wrinkled face and white hair; I uow heard mvself speak with the voice of an octogenarian. "What have you done?" I cried.

"We have obeyed your orders; you told us von were readv to leave your own self here, and the work is complete The man who entered has disappeared. If you should now stand m the streets of your village home, and crv to ^■our former friends, ' It is I, for whom you .seek,' thev would smile, and call you a madman. Know," continued the voice, " that there is m Eastern metaphysical lore, more true philosophv than is embodied in the sciences of to-day, and that b^■ means of the ramifications of our order it becomes possible, when necessary, for him who stands beyond the inner and upper Worshipful Master, to draw these treasures from the occult Wisdom pos- .sessions of Oriental .sages who forget nothing and lose nothing. Have we not been permitted to do his bidding well?"

" Ves," I squeaked; "and I wish that you had done it better. I would that I were dead."

" When the time comes, if neccssar>-, vour dead bodv will be fished from the water," was the reply ;'" witnesses have .seen the drowning tragedy, and will surely identify the corpse." "And may I go? am I free now?" I asked. "Ah," said he, "that is not for us to .say; our i)art of the work is fulfilled, and we can return to our native lands, and resume again our several studies. So far as we are concerned, you are free, but we have been directed to pass von over to the keeping of others who will carrv forward this judgment— there is another step."

"Tell me," I cried, once more desponding, " idl uie the full extent of mv .sentence."

GO IvTIhORIIPA.

" That is not known to us, and probably is not known to any one man. So far as the members of our order are concerned, Nou have now vanished. When you leave our sight this night, we will also separate from one another, we shall know no more of you and your future than will those of our working order who live in this section of the country. We have no personal acquaintance with the guide that has been selected to conduct vou farther, and who will appear in due season, and we make no surmise concerning the result of your journe)-, only we know that \ou will not be killed, for \ou have a work to perform, and will continue to exist long after others of your age are dead. Farewell, brother; we have discharged our duty, and by your consent, now we must return to our various pursuits. In a short time all evidence of your unfortunate mistake, the crime com- mitted by you in printing our sacred charges, will have vanished. Even now, emissaries are ordained to collect and destroy the written record that tells of your weakness, and with the destruc- tion of that testimony, for every copy will surely be annihilated, and with your disappearance from among men, for this also is to follow, our responsibility for you will cease."

Each of the seven men advanced, and grasped my hand, giving me the grip of brotherhood, and then, without a word, they severally and silently departed into the outer darkness. As the last man disappeared, a figure entered the door, clad and masked exactly like those who had gone. He removed the long black gown in which he was enveloped, threw the mask from his face and stood before me, a slender, graceful, bright- looking young man. By the light of the candle I saw him distinctly, and was at once struck by his amiable, cheerful countenance, and my heart bounded with a sudden hope. I had temporarily forgotten the transformation that had been made in my person, which, altogether painless, had left no ])liysical sensation, and thought of myself as I had formerly existed ; m\- soul was still my own, I imagined ; my blood seemed unchanged, and must flow as rapidly as before ; my strength was unaltered, indeed I was in self-consciousness still in the prime of life.

"Excuse me. Father," said the stranger, "but my services have been sought as a guide for the first part of a journey that I am informed vou intend to take."

A WILD NT,! IT. 61

His \-()ice was mild and pkasanl, liis l)earin<; respectful, but the peculiar manner in which he spoke convinced me that he knew that, as a ^uide, he must C(Miduct me to some previously designated spot, and that lie purposed lo do so was evident, with or without my consent.

"Why do you call me Father?" I attempted to say, but as the first few words csca|)ed ni\- lips, the recollection of the events of the night rushed upon me, for instead of my own, I recognized the piping voice of the old man I had now become, and my tongue faltered ; the sentence was unspoken.

" You would ask me why I called yon Father, I perceive ; well, because I am directed to be a son to you, to care for your w^ants, to make )our journey as easy and pleasant as possible, to guide you quicth' and carefull\- to the point that will next ]irove of interest to you."

I stood before him a free man, in the prime of life, full of energy, and this stripling alone interposed between myself and liberty. Should I permit the slender youth to carrs- me away as a prisoner? would it not be best to thrust him aside, if necessary, crush him to the earth? go forth in my freedom? Yet I hesitated, for he might have friends outside ; probably he was not alone.

" There are no companions near us," said he, reading my mind, " and, as I do not seem formidable, it is natural you should weigh in ^•our mind the probabilities of escape ; but you can not evade your destiny, and you must not attempt to denv Nourself the pleasure of my company. You must leave this locality and leave without a regret. In order that you mav acquiesce willingly I ]iropose that together wc return to your former home, which you will, however, find no longer to be a home. I will accompany you as a comjiauion, as your .son. You may speak, with one exception, to whomever you care to address; may call on an>- of xour old associates, may assert openlv who vou are, or whatever and whoever you please to represent yourself, only I must also have the ])rivilege of joining in the conversation."

'* Agreed," I cried, and extended my hand ; he grasped it, and thcni by the light of the candle, I .saw a peculiar expression flit o\er his face, as he added :

02 KTIDORIIl'A.

" To one person only, as I have said, and you have promised, vou must not speak — your wife."

I bowed my head, and a flood of sorrowful reflections swept over me. Of all the world the one whom I longed to meet, to clasp in my arms, to counsel in ni\' distress, was the wife of my bosom, and I begged him to withdraw his cruel injunction.

" You should have thought of her before ; now it is too late. To permit vou to meet, and speak with her would be dangerous ; she might pierce your disguise. Of all others there is no fear."

" Must I go with you into an unknown future without a farewell kiss from my little child or from my babe scarce three months old?"

'' It has been so ordained."

I threw mvself on the floor and moaned. " This is too hard, too hard for human heart to bear. Life has no charm to a man who is thrust from all he holds most dear, home, friends, family."

" The men who relinquish such pleasures and such comforts are those who do the greatest good to humanity," said the youth. "The multitude exist to propagate the race, as animal progen- itors of the multitudes that are to follow, and the exceptional philanthropist is he who denies himself material bliss, and punishes himself in order to w^ork out a problem snch as it has been ordained that you are to solve. Do not argue further — the line is marked, and you must walk direct."

Into the blaze of the old fireplace of that log house, for, although it was autumn, the night was chilly, he then cast his black robe and false face, and, as they turned to ashes, the last evidences of the vivid acts through which I had passed, were destroyed. As I lay moaning in my utter misery, I tried to reason with myself that what I experienced was all a hallucina- tion. I dozed, and awoke startled, half conscious only, as one in a nightmare; I said to myself, "A dream! a dream!" and slept again.

CHAPTKR \'III.

A LESSON IN MINI) STTDV.

The door of the cabin was open wIku I awoke, the sun shcjne brightly, and my friend, apparentlx' happy and unconcerned, said: "Father, we must soon start on our journe\-; I liave taken advantage of vour refreshing sleep, and have engaged breakfast at yonder farm-house; our meal awaits ns."

I arose, washed my wrinkled face, combed my white hair, and shuddered as I saw in a pocket mirror the reflection of ni\' figure, an aged, ap])arenll\- decrcint man.

" Do not be disturbed at your feeble condition," said my companion; "your infirmities are not real. Few men have ever been permitted to drink of the richness of the revelations that await you ; and in view of these expectations the fact that you are prematurely aged in appearance should not unnerve you. Be of good heart, and when you say the word, we will start on our jonrne\', which will begin as soon a.-? you have said farewell to former friends and acquaintances."

I made no reply, but silently acconii)anie(l him, for my thoughts were in the past, and my reflections were far from ])leasanl.

We reached the farm-house, aiul as I observed the care and attention extended me by the pleasant-faced housewife, I reali/.ed that, in one respect at least, old age brought its com])ensation. After breakfast a man appeared from the farmer's barn, driving a team of horses attached to an oi)en spring-wagon which, in obedience to the request of my guide, I entered, accompanied by my young friend, who directed that we be driven toward the village from which I had been abducted. He .seemed to know my ])ast life as I knew it; he asked me to .select tho.se of my friends to whom I first wished to bid farewell, even mentioning their names; he .seemed all thai a patient, faithful son could be. and I began to wonder at his audacity, even as nnich as I admired his self-confidence.

(54 i:Tii)()kni'A.

As \vc journeyed onward \vc enga<;ed in familiar talk. W'c sat to^i^ether on the back seat of the open spring-wafj^on, in full sitrht of passers, no attempt beinjj^ made to conceal m\- person. Thus we traveled for two days, and on our course we passed throutrh a larj;e city with which I was acquainted, a city that my abductors had pre\'iousl\' carried me through and be\'ond. I found that my "son" possessed fine conversational power, and a rich mine of information, and he became increasingly interesting as he drew from his fund of knowledge, and poured into m\- listening ears an entrancing strain of historical and metaphysical infornuition. Never at a loss for a word or an idea, he appeared to discern nu- cogitations, and as my mind wandered in this or that direction he fell into the channel of my fancies, and answered my unspoken thoughts, my mind-questions or medi- tations, as pertinenth' as though I had spoken them.

His accomplishments, for the methods of his perception were unaccompanied by any endeavor to draw me into word expression, made me aware at least, that, in him, I had to deal with a man unquestionablv possessed of more than ordinary intellect and education, and as this conviction entered nu- mind he changed his subject and promptly answered the silent inquiry, speaking as follows :

" Have you not sometimes felt that in yourself there may exist undeveloped senses that await an awakening touch to open to yourself a new world, senses that may be fully developed, but which saturate each other and neutralize themselves ; quiescent, closed circles which you can not reach, satisfied circuits slum- bering within your body and that defy your efforts to utilize them? In vour dreams have you not seen sights that words are inadequate to describe, that your faculties can not retain in waking moments, and which dissolve into intangible nothingness, leaving onlv a vague, shadowy outline as the mind quickens, or rather when the senses that possess you in sleep relinquish the body to the returning vital functions and s]:»irit? This uncon- scious conception of other planes, a beyond or betwixt, that is neither mental nor material, neither here nor located elsew^here, belongs to humanity in general, and is made evident from the unsatiable desire of men to pry into phenomena latent or recon- dite that offer no a])])arent return to humanit\-. This desire has

A Li:SS()X I\ MINI) STTDV. 65

given men the knowled.L^c tliey now possc-ss of the sciences; sciences yet in their infancy. Stndy in tliis direction is, at present, altogether of the material plane, bnt in time to come, men will gain control of ontlying senses which will enable tlieni to step from the seen into the consideration of matter or force that is now^ subtle and evasive, which nnist be accomplished by means of the latent faculties that I have indicated. There will be an unconscious development of new mind-forces in the student of nature as the rudiments of these so-called sciences are elaborated. Step by step, as the ages pass, the faculties of men will, under progressive series of exolutions, imperceptibly pass into higher phases until that which is even now possible with some individuals of the purified esoteric school, but whidi would seem miraculous if practiced openly at this day, will prove feasible to humanity generally and be found in exact accord with natural laws. The conversational method of men, whereby communion between human beings is carried on by disturbing the air by means of vocal organs so as to produce mechanical pulsations of that medium, is crude in the extreme. Mind craves to meet mind, but can not yet thrust matter aside, and in order to communicate one with another, the impression one mind wishes to convey to another must be first made on the brain matter that accompanies it, which in turn influences the organs of speech, inducing a disturbance of the air by the motioiis of the vocal organs, which, by undulations that reach to another being, act on his ear, and secondarily on the earthly matter of his brain, and finally by this roundabout course, impress the second being's mind. In this transmission of motions there is great waste of energ}^ and loss of time, but such methods are a necessit>- of the present slow, much-obstructed method of communication. There is, in cultivated man, an innate craving for something more facile, and often a partly develoj^ed conce])tion, si)ectral and vague, appears, and the being feels that there may be for mortals a richer, brighter life, a higher earthly existence that science does not now indicate. Such intimation of a deeper play of faculties is now most vi\id with men during the perfect loss of mental self as experienced in dreams, which as vet man in the quick can not grasp, and which fade as he awakens. As mental sciences are developed, investigators will find that the

66 IvTlDoRHl'A.

niediiuu known as air is nnnecessary as a means of conveyinor mind conceptions from one ])erson to another; that material sounds and word pulsations are cumbersome ; that thou<;ht force unexpressed may be used to accomplish more than speech can do, and that physical exertions as exemplified in motion of matter such as I have described will be unnecessary for mental com- munication. As door after door in these directions shall open before men, mystery after mystery will be disclosed, and vanish as mysteries to reappear as simple facts. Phenomena that arc impossible and unrevealed to the scientist of to-day will be familiar to the coming multitude, and at last, as by degrees, clearer knowledge is evolved, the vocal language of men will disappear, and humanity, regardless of nationality, will, in silence and even in darkness, converse eloquently together in mind language. That which is now esoteric will become exoteric. Then mind will meet mind as my mind now impinges on your own, and, in reply to your unuttered question regarding m>' apparently unaccountable powers of perception, I say they are perfectlv natural, but while I can read your thoughts, because of the fact that you can not reciprocate in this direction, I must use my voice to impress your mind. You will know more of this, however, at a future day, for it has been ordained that you are to be educated with an object that is now concealed. At present you are interested mainly in the affairs of life as you know them, and can not enter into these purer spheres. We are approaching one of your former friends, and it may be your pleasure to ask him some questions and to l)id him farewell."

CHAI'Tl'.R IX.

I CAN NOT KSTAin.ISII MV IDI-.NTITV.

Ill surprise I perceived c()iiiin<4" towards us a lijjjlit spriujj; wagou, iu whicli rode cue of iny old acquaintances. Pleasure at the discovery led ine to raise my hat, wave it around ui\' head, and salute him even at the considerable distance that then separated us. I was annoyed at the look of curiosity that passed over his countenance, and not until the two vehicles had stopped side by side did it occur to me that I was unrecoo^nized. I IkuI been so engrossed in m\' companion's rc\elations, tliat I had forgotten my unfortunate physical condition.

I stretched out my hand, I leaned over almost inlu the other vehicle, and earnestly said :

"Do you not know me? Only a short time ago we sat and conversed side by side."

A look of bewilderment came over his features. " I liave never seen you that I can recall," he answered.

]\Iy spirit sank within me. Could it be possible that I was really so changed? I begged him to try and recall my former self, giving my name. "I am that person," I added; but he, with an expression of countenance that told as plaiiih- as words could speak that he considered me deranged, touched his horse, and drove on.

My companion broke the awkward silence. " Do you know that I perceived between you two men an unconscious displa\- of mind-language, especially evident on your part? You wished with all the earnestness of your soul to bring your.'^elf as you for- merly appeared, before that man, and when it proved impossible, without a word from him, his mind exhibited itself to your more earnest intellect, and \()n realised that he said to himself, 'This person is a poor lunatic' He told you his thoughts in mind- language, as plainly as words could ha\-e spoken, because the intense earnestness on your part quickened y(Mir j^erceptive

OS in'IDORlIl'A.

faculties, ImU he could uot see your uiental state, aud the plcadiuj; voice of the apparent strauo^er before him could not convince the unconcerned lethari^ic mind within him. I observed, however, in addition to what yon noticed, that he is really looking for you. That is the object of his journey, and I learn that in everv direction men are now spreading the news that you have been kidnapped and carried from your jail. However, we shall soon be in the village, and you w^ill then hear more about \-oursclf."

We rode in silence while I meditated on my remarkable situation. I could not resign myself without a struggle to my approaching fate, and I felt even yet a hope, although I seemed powerless in the hands of destiny. Could I not, by some method, convince my friends of my identity? I determined, forgetting the fact that my guide was even then reading m\- mind, that upon the next opportunity I would pursue a different course.

" It will not avail," mv companion replied. " Von must do one of two things : \ou will \-oluntarily go with me, or you will involuntarily go to an insane asylum. Neither >ou nor I could by any method convince others that the obviously decrepit old man beside me was but >esterday hale, hearty, young and strong. You will find that you can not prove your identity, and as a friend, one of the great brotherhood to which you belong, a craft that deals charitably wdth all men and all problems, I advise you to accept the situation as soon as possible after it becomes evident to your mind that you are lost to former affiliations, and must henceforth be a stranger to the people whom you know. Take my advice, and cease to regret the past and cheerfulh- turn your thoughts to the future. On one side of you the lun- atic asylum is open ; on the other, a journey into an unknown region, bevond the confines of any known country. On the one hand, imprisonment and subjection, perhaps abuse and neglect ; on the other, liberation of soul, evolution of faculty, and a grasping of superior knowledge that is denied most men — yes, withheld from all but a few ])ersons of each generation, for onl\- a few, unknown to the millions of this world's inhabitants, have passed over the road yon are to travel. Just now you wished to meet your jailer of a few hours ago; it is a wise conclusion, and

I CAN NOT I'STAUMSir MV IDIvNTITV. (>«>

if he does not rcco.^iii/e nou, I ask in sinccrit\-, who will he likely to do so? We will drive strai<;ht to his honu' ; hut, here he comes."

Indeed, we were now in the village, v/here ni\ niisc'ra])le jour- ney began, and perhaps by chance — it seems that it could not have been otherwise — my former jailer actualK- approached ns.

" If you please," said my eompaniolT, "I will assist you to alight from the wagon, and you may privately converse with him."

Our wagon stopped, ni)- guide opened a conversation with the jailer, saying that his friend wished to speak with him, and then assisted me to alight and retired a distance. I was vexed at my infirmities, which embarrassed me most exasperatinglv, but which I knew were artificial ; my body appeared unwilling although my spirit was anxious; but do what I could to control my actions, I involuntarily behaved like a decrepit old man. However, my mind was made up ; this attempt to prove my personality should be the last; failure now would i)rove the turning point, and I would go willingly with my companion upon the unknown journey if I could not convince the jailer of my identit)-.

Straightening myself before the expectant jailer, who, with a look of inquisitiveness, regarded me as a stranger, I asked if he knew my former self, giving my name.

"That I do," he replied, "and if I could find him at this moment I would be relieved of a load of worry."

"Would you surely know him if you met him?" I asked.

"Assuredly," he replied; "and if you bring tidings of his whereabouts, as your bearing indicates, speak,, that I ma\- rid myself of suspicion and suspense."

Calling the jailer by name, I asked him if my countenance did not remind him of the man he wished to find.

" Not at all."

"Listen, does not my \-oice resembh' tliat of \()ur escaped prisoner?"

" Xot in the least."

With a violent elTorl I drew m\- form as straight as pos- sible, and stood upright before him, with every facial muscle strained to its utmost, in a vain endeavor to bring my wrinkled countenance to its former smoothness, and with the energy that

70

IvTIDORlirA.

a drowning man might exert to grasp a passing object, I tried to control my voice, and preserve my identity by so doing, vehementlv imploring him, begging him to listen to my story. " I am the man you seek ; I am the prisoner who, a few days

"l AM THK MAX VOr SKKK."

ago, stood in the ])rime of life before von. I have been spirited away from you by men who are leagued with occult forces, which extend forward among hidden mvsteries, into forces which illuminate the present, and reach backward into the past unseen. These persons, by artful and damnable manipulations under the guidance of a power that has been evolved in the secrecy of past ages, and transmitted only to a favored few, have changed the strong man you knew into the one apparently feeble, who now confronts nou. ( )iil\- a short period has passed

I CAN NOT r;sT,\i!i.isir mv iDi-xrrTv.

71

back to un cHI. Seal vo,„ <l„„r.s, a„d 1,„I<1 mc ajrai.i for your flunsfon w,li „ow be to n,c a paradise "

tint [he hif ,' 1 ™' '''""'"""' '"'"'"• *■'" «■■"' ^'■'^'' "'O^l ' '■-••li«<l pece.yed that he beheved n,e to be a l„„atic. Pleadin'es a„d etnreattes were of „„ avail, a„d ,„>• eagerness rapidK ^a,,' 't ...to despa,r until a, last I cried: ■■ If ™„ will u ,. 1 el ev m -vcls I w,n throw ut.vself o„ the u.erev of „,v vouug co , pau- ■•■"• ask vou to consider his testin.ouv, and if he s^vs t It I au, not what I assert n.vself to be, I will leave ,nv ho ne a m country aud go with hint <p,ietly into the unknown fut, re "

beckoned the youug ,nau wd,o, „p to this time, had stood aloof

Jaillr'Tan k'^T- "^- '"'"'■ ^"""■■"- --• -Idressi t e jailer, called hi,„ by name, aud corroborated mv storv Ves

strange as ,t sounded to n,e, he reiterated the substance of nn' narrative as I had repeated it. "Now, von will believe i ' cned ,n ecstaev ; "now you need no longer <,uestiou the l^tets tiiat I ]ia\-e related."

_ Instead, however, of acceptiii- tlie .storv of the witness the jailer upbraided liim.

"Thi.s i.s a preconcerted arrangement to .<;et me into ridicule or further trouble You two have made up an incredible storv that on Its face is fit only to be told to men as craxv or desicMiin.V as yourselves. This youn.<r man did not even overhear\our conversation with me, and yet he repeats his le.sson without a question from me as to what I wish to learn of him." "He can see our minds," I cried in despair "Crazier than I should have beliexed from vour countenance " tlK- jailer replied. "Of all the improbable stories ima^^nnable you have attempted to inveiole me into accepting that which is most unreasonable. If you are lea^nied tOK^ether intent on some swindling scheme, I give you warning now that I am in no mood for trifling. Go your way, and trouble me no more with his foolish .scheming, which villainy or Innacv of some descrip- tion must underlie." Ik- turned in anger and left us "

72 RTIDORIII'A.

"It is as I predicted," said ni\' coinpaniou; " nou are lost to man. Those who know you best will turn from )'ou soonest. I mi^^ht become as wild as you are, in your interest, and onl\ serve to make your story appear more extravaj^ant. In human affairs men jud^e and act accordinj^ to the limited knowledge at command of the multitude. Witnesses who tell the truth arc often, in our courts of law, stunned, as you have been, by the decisions of a narrow-minded jury. Men sit on juries with little conception of the facts of the case that is brought before them ; the men who manipulate them are mere tools in unseen hands that throw their several minds in antagonisms unexplainable to man. The judge is unconsciously often a tool of his own errors or those of others. One learned judge unties what another has fastened, each basing his views on the same testimony, each rendering his decision in accordance with law derived from the same authority. Your case is that condition of mind that men call lunacy. You can see much that is hidden from others because you have become acquainted with facts that their narrow education forbids them to accept, but, because the majority is against you, they consider you mentally unbalanced. The philos- ophy of men does not yet comprehend the conditions that have operated on your person, and as you stand alone, although in the right, all men will oppose you, and you must submit to the views of a misguided majority. In the eyes of a present generation you are crazy. A jury of your former peers could not do else than so adjudge you, for you are not on the same mental plane, and I ask, will you again attempt to accomplish that which is as impossible as it would be for you to drink the waters of Seneca Lake at one draught ? Go to those men and propose to drain that lake at one gulp, and you will be listened to as seriously as when you beg your former comrades to believe that you are another person than what you seem. Only lengthened life is credited with the production of physical changes that under favorable conditions, are possible of accomplishment in a brief period, and such testimony as you could bring, in the present state of human knowledge, would only add to the proof of your lunacy."

" I see, I see," I said ; " and I submit. Lead on, I am ready. Whatever my destined career may be, wherever it may be, it can only lead to the grave."

ICANNOT HSTAnr.fSH MV IMKXTITV. 73

"Do not be so sure of that," was tin- rci>Iv

■n> c„,„pa„i„„ ,|i,„,isse,l the farme ' ' , ''" ""■"'

liberalh-, and secured l„d,ri„„s T ■ / ''■''■ l'^-""« '■"»

were expeeted), and fte.K^rt- ',"''■ '"""• " '""^^'^ *^

chapti<:r X.

MV JOURNKY TOWARDS THE END OK KARTH BKC.INS. — TIlp; adepts' BROTHERHOOD.

My companion did not attempt to watch over my motions or in anv way to interfere with my freedom.

" I wall for a time necessarily be absent," he said, " arrano^intr for onr journey, and while I am cretting ready you must emplo>- yourself as best you can. I a.sk you, however, now to swear that, as you have promised, you will not seek your wife and children."

To this I agreed.

"Hold up your hand," he said, and I repeated after him: " All this I most solemnly and sincerely promise and swear, with a firm and steadfast resolution to keep and perform my oath, without the least equivocation, mental reservation or self-evasion whatever."

"That will answer; see that you keep your oath this time," he said, and he departed. Several days were consumed before he returned, and during that time I was an inquisitive and silent listener to the various conjectures others were making regarding my abduction which event was becoming of general interest. Some of the theories advanced were quite near the truth, others wild and erratic. How preposterous it seemed to me that the actor himself could be in the very seat of the disturbance, will- ing, anxious to testify, ready to prove the truth concerning his position, and yet unable even to obtain a respectful hearing from those most interested in his recovery. Men gathered together discussing the "outrage"; women, children, even, talked of little else, and it was evident that the entire country was aroused. New political issues took their rise from the event, but the man who was the prime cause of the excitement was for a period a willing and unwilling listener, as he had been a willing and unwilling actor in the tragedy.

74

Mv jouRNivv Towards thi-: icnd oi" I'Artii p.i;c,ins. 7o

One moniini; my coinijanion drove up in a lij;lit carriage, drawn by a span of fine, spirited, black horses.

"We are ready now," he said, and my unprecedented journcv began.

Wherever we stopped, I lieard my name mentioned. Men combined against men, brother was dechiiming against brother, neighbor was against neighbor, everywhere suspicion was in the air,

"The passage of time alone can quiet these people," said 1.

" The u.sual conception of the term Time — an indescribable something flowing at a constant rate — is erroneous," replied my comrade. "Time is humanity's best friend, and should be pict- ured as a ministering angel, instead of a skeleton with hour-glass and scythe. Time does not fly, but is permanent and quiescent, while restless, force-impelled matter rushes onward. Force and matter fly ; Time reposes. At our birth we are wound up like a machine, to move for a certain number of years, grating against Time. We grind against that complacent spirit and wear not Time, but ourselves away. We hold within ourselves a certain amount of cnergs', which, an evanescent form of matter, is the opponent of Time. Time has no existence with inanimate objects. It is a conception of the human intellect. Time is rest, perfect rest, tranquillit}' such as man never realizes unless he becomes a part of the sweet silences toward which human life and human mind are drifting. Somucli for Time. Now for Life. Disturbed energy in one of its forms, we call Life ; and this Life is the great enemy of peace, the opponent of steadfast perfection. Pure energ}', the soul of the universe, penneates all things with which man is now acquainted, but when at rest is imperceptible to man, while disturbed energ}-, according to its condition, is apparent either as matter or as force. A substance or material body is a manifestation resulting from a disturbance of cnergA-. The agitating cause removed, the manifestations disappear, and thus a uni\erse mav be extinguished, without unbalancing tlie cosmos that remains. The worlds known to man are conditions of abnormal energy moving on sejiarate jdanes through what men call .space. They attract to them.selves bodies of similar description, and thus influence one another — they have each a separate existence, and are swayed to and fro under the influence

76 I'.TIDORIII'A.

of the various disturbances in energy common to their rank or order, which we call forms of forces. Unsettled energy also assumes numerous other expressions that are unknown to man, but which in all perceptible forms is characterized by motion. Pure energy can not be appreciated by the minds of mortals. There are invisible worlds besides those perceived by us in our planetary system, unreachable centers of ethereal structure about us that stand in a higher plane of development than earthly matter which is a gross form of disturbed energy. There are also lower planes. Man's acquaintance with the forms of energy is the result of his power of perceiving the forms of matter of which he is a part. Heat, light, gravitation, electricity and magnetism are ever present in all perceivable substances, and, although purer than earth, they are still manifestations of absolute energy, and for this reason are sensible to men, but more evanes- cent than material bodies. Perhaps you can conceive that if these disturbances could be removed, matter or force would be resolved back into pure energy, and would vanish. Such a dissociation is an ethereal existence, and as pure energy the life spirit of all material things is neither cold nor hot, heavy nor light, solid, liquid nor gaseous — men can not, as mortals now exist, see, feel, smell, taste, or even conceive of it. It moves through space as we do through it, a world of itself as transparent to matter as matter is to it, insensible but ever present, a reality to higher existences that rest in other planes, but not to us an essence subject to scientific test, nor an entity. Of these problems and their connection with others in the unseen depths beyond, you are not yet in a position properly to judge, but before many years a new sense will be given you or a develop- ment of latent senses by the removal of those more gross, and a partial insight into an unsuspected unseen, into a realm to you at present unknown.

" It has been ordained that a select few must from time to time pass over the threshold that divides a mortal's present life from the future, and your lot has been cast among the favored ones. It is or should be deemed a privilege to be permitted to pass farther than human philosophy has yet gone, into an investiga- tion of the problems of life ; this I say to encourage you. We have in our order a handful of persons who have received the

MV jorRXIvV TOWARDS TIIIC I-:XI) OI' HARTII lU-.fVINS. 77

acciiimilaled fruits of tlic close attention otliers have given to these subjects which have been handed to them by the genera- tions of men who have preceded. You are destined to become as they are. Tliis study of semi-occult forces has enabled those selected for the work to master some of the concealed truths of being, and by the partial development of a new sense or new senses, partly to triumph over death. These facts are hidden from ordinary man, and from the earth-bound workers of our brother- hood, who can not even interpret the words they learn. The methods by which they are elucidated have been locked from man because the world is not prepared to receive them, selfishness being the ruling pa.ssion of debased mankind, and publicity, until the chain of evidence is more complete, would embarrass their further evolutions, for man as yet lives on the selfish plane."

" Do you mean that, among men, there are a few persons possessed of powers such as you have mentioned?"

" Yes; they move here and there through all orders of society, and their attainments are unknown, except to one another, or, at most, to but few persons. These adepts are scientific men, and may not even be recognized as members of our organization ; indeed it is often necessary, for obvious reasons, that they should not be known as such. These studies must constantly be prosecuted in various directions, and some monitors must teach others to perform certain duties that are necessary to the grand evolution. Hence, when a man has become one of our brother- hood, from the promptings that made you one of us, and has been as ready and determined to instruct outsiders in our work as you has been, it is ])roper that he should in turn be compelled to serve our people, and eventualh-, mankind."

" Am I to infer from this," I exclaimed, a sudden light breaking u])on me, "that the alchemistic manuscript that led me to the fraternity to which you are related may have been artfully designed to serve the interest of that organization?" To this question I received no rejily. After an interval, I again sought information concerning the order, and with more success.

" I understand that yon propose that I shall go on a journey of investigation for the good of our order and also of luimanity."

"True ; it is neces.sary that our discoveries be kept alive, and it is essential that the men who do this work accept the tnist of

7S IvTlDORlll'A.

their own accord He who will not ccMisent to add to the common stock of knowledtre and nnderstandin*;, mnst be deemed a drone in the hive of natnre — bnt few persons, however, are called npon to serve as yon mnst serve. Men are scattered over the world with this object in view, and are unknown to their families or even to other members of the order ; they hold in solemn trust our sacred revelations, and impart them to others as is ordained, and thus nothing perishes ; eventually humanity will profit.

"Others, as you soon will be doing, are now exploring assigned sections of this illimitable field, accumulating further knowledge, and they will report results to those whose duty it is to retain and formulate the collected sum of facts and principles. So it is that, unknown to the great body of our brotherhood, a chosen number, under our esoteric teachings, are gradually passing the dividing line that separates life from death, matter from spirit, for we have members who have mastered these problems. We ask, however, no aid of evil forces or of necrom- ancv or black art, and your study of alchemy was of no avail, although to save the vital truths alchemy is a part of our work. We proceed in exact accordance with natural laws, which will yet be known to all men. vSorrow, suffering, pain of all descriptions, are enemies to the members of our order, as they are to mankind broadly, and we hope in the future so to control the now hidden secrets of Nature as to be able to govern the antagonistic disturbances in energy with which man now is everywhere thwarted, to subdue the physical enemies of the race, to affiliate religious and scientific thought, cultivating brotherly love, the foundation and capstone, the cement and union of this ancient fraternity."

"And am I really to take an important part in this scheme? Have I been set apart to explore a section of the unknown for a bit of hidden knowledge, and to return again?"

"This I will say," he answered, evading a direct reply, "you have been selected for a part that one in a thousand has been required to undertake. You are to pass into a field that will carry • you beyond the present limits of human observation. This much I have been instructed to impart to you in order to nerve you for your duty. I seem to be a young man; really I am aged. You seem to be infirm and c^ld, but you are young.

MY joruxi-v Towards tiii-. r:\i) oi- ivarth uivtiixs. :<»

Many vears aoo, cycles a-o as men rcconl time, I was promoted to do a certain work becanse of my /.eahnis natnre; like \on, I also had to do penance for an error. I disai)peared, as yon are destined to do, from the si-ht of men. I regained my yonth • yonrs has been lost forever, bnt yon will re-ain more than vonr former strencrtli. We shall both exist after this generation of men has passed away, and shall min-le with venerations yet to be born, for we shall learn how to restore onr yonthfnl vicror, and will supply it time and a.y:aiii to earthly matter. Rest^'assured also that the object of onr labors is of the most landable nature and we must be upheld under all difficulties by the fact that mul- titudes of men who are yet to come will be benefited therebN."

CHAPTER XL

MY JOURXKV COXTlxrF.S. — IXSTIXCT.

It is unnecessary for nie to oi\e the details of the first part of ni\' lonjj^ journe)'. My coni])anion was (^nided by a perceptive faculty that, like the compass, enabled him to keep in the proper course. He did not (picstion those whom we met, and made no endeavor to maintain a given direction ; and yet he was traveling in a part of the country that was new to himself. I marveled at the accuracy of his intuitive perception, for he seemed never to be at fault. When the road forked, he turned to the right or the left in a perfectly careless manner, but the continuity of his course was never interrupted. I began mentally to question whether he could be guiding us aright, forgetting that he was reading my thoughts, and he answered : " There is nothing strange in this self-directi\'e faculty. Is not man caj)able of following where animals lead? One of the objects of my special study has been to ascertain the nature of the instinct-power of animals, the sagacity of brutes. The carrier pigeon will fiv to its cote across hundreds of miles of strange country. The )oung pig will often return to its pen by a route unknown to it ; the sluggish tortoise will find its home without a guide, without seeing a familiar object ; cats, horses and other animals possess this ])ower, which is not an unexplainable instinct, but a natural sense better developed in some of the lower creatures than it is in man. The power lies dormant in man, but exists, nevertheless. If we develop one facult)' we lose acuteness in some other ])ower. Men ha\e lost in mental development in this particular direction while seeking to gain in others. If there were no record of the fact that light brings objects to the recognition of the mind through the agency of the eye, the sense of sight in an animal would be considered by men devoid of it as ada])til)ilitN- to extraor- dinary circumstances, or instinct. vSo it is that animals often vSee clearl\- where to the sense of man there is onl\- darkness;

80

MY jOlRXIvV CONTINl'IvS. 81

such sii;lit is not irrcspoiisixc action without consciousness of a purpose. Man is not very nia*(naninious. Instead of giving credit to the lower animals for superior perception in nian\- directions, he denies to them the conscious possession of ])owcrs imperfectly developed in mankind. We egotistically aim to raise ourselves, and do so in our own estimation by clothing the actions of the lower animals in a garment of irrespon.sibility. Becau.se we can not understand the inwardness of their power, we assert that they act by the influence of instinct. The term instinct, as I would define it, is an expression applied by men to a series of senses which man possesses, but has not developed. The word is used b)- man to characterize the mental superiority of other animals in certain directions where his own senses are defective. Instead of crediting animals with these, to them, invaluable faculties, man conceitedly says they are involuntary actions. Ignorant of their mental status, man is too arrogant to admit that lower animals are superior to him in any way. But we are not consistent. Is it not true that in the direction in which you question my powder, some men by cultivation often become expert beyond their fellows? and such men have also given ver)' little systematic study to subjects connected with these undeniable mental qualities. The hunter will hold his course in utter dark- ness, passing inequalities in the ground, and axoiding obstructions he can not see. The fact of his superiority' in this wa\', o\er others, is not questioned, although he can not e\j)lain his methods nor understand how he operates. His quickened sense is often as much entitled to be called instinct as is the dixining power of the carrier pigeon. If scholars would cea.se to devote their entire energies to the development of the material, artistic, or scientific part of modern cixilization, and turn their attention to other forms of mental culture, many beauties and powers of Nature now unknown would be revealed. However, this can not be, for under existing conditions, the .strife for food and wannth is the most important struggle that engages mankind, and controls our actions. In a time that is surely to come, however, when the knowledge of all men is united into a comprehensive whole, the book of life, illuminated thereby, will contain many l)eautiful pages that may be easily read, but which are now not susjiccted to exist. The power of the magnet is not uniform — engineers

s2 irriDoRni'A.

know that the needle of the compass inexpHcably deviates from time to time as a line is run over the earth's surface, but they also know that aberrations of the needle finall\- correct them- selves. The temporary variations of a few dej^rees that occur in the runnini^ of a compass line are usually overcome after a time, and without a change of course, the disturbed needle swerves back, and again points to the calculated direction, as is shown b>- the vernier. Should I err in my course, it would be by a trifle onh', and we could not go far astray before I would unconsciously discover the true path. I carry my magnet in ni\' mind."

!\lan\- such dissertations or explanations concerning related questions were subsequently made in what I then considered a very impressive, though always unsatisfactory, manner. I recall those episodes now, after other more remarkable experiences which are yet to be related, and record them briefl\- with little wonderment, because I have gone through adventures which demonstrate that there is nothing improbable in the statements, and I will not consume time with further details of this part of my journcN'.

We leisurely traversed State after State, crossed rivers, moun- tains and seemingly interminable forests. The ultimate object of our travels, a location in Kentucky, I afterward learned, led mv companion to guide me by a roundabout course to Wheeling, Virginia, by the usual mountain roads of that day, instead of going, as he might perhaps have much more easily done, via Buffalo and the Lake Shore to Northern Ohio, and then southerly across the country. He said in explanation, that the time lost at the beginning of our journey by this route, was more than recompensed by the ease of the subsequent Ohio River trip. Upon reaching Wheeling, he disposed of the team, and we embarked on a keel boat, and journeyed down the Ohio to Cin- cinnati. The river was falling when we started, and became very low before Cincinnati was reached, too low for steamers, and our trip in that flat-bottomed boat, on the sluggish current of the tortuous stream, proved tedious and slow. Arriving at Cincinnati, my guide decided to wait for a rise in the river, designing then to complete our journey on a steamboat. I spent several days in Cincinnati quite pleasantly, expecting to

MY JOURNKY CONTINUICS. 83

continue onr course on the steamer " Teeniiiseh," tlien in j)()rt, and ready for departure. At the hist moment my guide chan<(ed his mind, and instead of embarking on tliat l)oat, we took passage on the steamer "Cieorge Washington," leaving vShi])ping-Port Wednesday, December 13, 1826.

During that entire journey, from tlie commencement to (jur final destination, my guide paid all the bills, and did not want either for money or attention from the people with whom we came in contact. He seemed everywhere a stranger, and yet was possessed of a talisman that opened every door to which he applied, and which gave us unlimited accommodations wherever he asked them. When the boat landed at Smithland, Kentucky, a village on the bank of the Ohio, just above Paducah, we dis- embarked, and my guide then for the first time seemed nientallv disturbed.

"Our journey together is nearly over," he said; "in a few days my responsibility for you will cease. Nerve vourself for the future, and bear its trials and its pleasures manfully. I m ax- never see you again, but as you are even now conspicuous in our history, and will be closely connected with the development of the plan in which I am also interested, although I am destined to take a different part, I shall probably hear of you again."

CHAPTER XII.

A CAVKRX DISCOVKRKI). — HISWKLl/S HIIJ..

We stopped that ni^lit at a tavern in Sniithland. Leaving^ this place after dinner the next day, on foot, we strnck through the country, into the bottom lands of the Cumberland River traveling leisurely, lingering for hours in the course of a circui- tous tramp of only a few miles. Although it was the month of December, the climate was mild and balmy. In my former home, a similar time of year would have been marked with snow, sleet, and ice, and I could not but draw a contrast between the two localities. How different also the scenery from that of my native State. Great timber trees, oak, poplar, hickory, were in majestic possession of large tracts of territory, in the solitude of which man, so far as evidences of his presence were concerned, had never before trodden. From time to time we passed little clearings that probably were to be enlarged to thrifty plantations in the future, and finally we crossed the Cumberland River. That night we rested with ]\Ir. Joseph Watts, a wealthy and cultured land owner, who resided on the river's bank. After leaving his home the next morning, we journeyed slowly, very slowly, my guide seemingly passing with reluctance into the country. He had become a vers- pleasant companion, and his conversation was ver>' entertaining. We struck the sharp point of a ridge the morning we left Mr. Watts' hospitable house. It was four or five miles distant, but on the opposite side of the Cumberland, from Smithland. Here a steep bluff broke through the bottom land to the river's edge, the base of the bisected point being washed by the Cumberland River, which had probably cut its way through the stony mineral of this ridge in ages long passed. We climbed to its top and sat upon the pinnacle, and from that point of command- ing observation I drank in the beauties of the scene around me. The river at our feet wound gracefullv before lis, and disappeared

84

SECTION OF KENTUCKY, NKAR SMTTHI^ANn, IN WHICH THE ENTRANCE TO THE KENTICKY CAVERN IS SAID TO BE l,OCATi;n.

I	Paducah.	15-	Salem.	29.	Hurricane Creek.
2	Sniithlaiul.	i6.	Hampton.	30	Ford's Ferry.
3	GUI Sininilaiul.	17.	Faulkner.	3i-	Weston.
4	rattcrsoii.	iS.	IMnllikin.	32-	Caseyville.
5	Frenchtown.	19-	Back Creek.	33	Tradewater Ri\er.
6	Hickory Creek.	20.	Carrsvillc.	34-	Dycusbnrgli.
7	Underwood.	21.	Givcn's Creek.	35-	Livingstone Creek
S	Birdsville.	22.	Golconda.	36	Francis
9	Bayou Jlills.	23-	lUizabethtown.	37-	Harrold. View.)
0	Oak Ridge.	24-	Jletropoli.s City.	3S.	Crider
1	Moxley's I^audiug.	25-	Hamletsburgh	39	Levias.
2	Kildare.	26.	Sheridan	40	Crayneville.
3	Lola	27.	Deer Creek	4"-	Marion.
4	Pinckucyville.	28.	Hurricane.

A c \\i;k\ i)isc()\i:ki;n. 87

in l)()lli (lirc'Clioiis, its fxlixiius dissohin,!^ in a bed of forest. A ^ivat black l)hitT, far uj) the slriain, rose like a inountaiu, iij^on the kft side of the ri\er; bottom lands were about us, and hills appc ;u\(l across the ri\-er in the far distance — towards the 'i\niicsscc Ri\cr. With rcL^n I I finally drew uiy eyes from the \isiou, and we resumed the journe\-. W'e followed the left bank of the river to the base of the black blulT, — " liiswell's Hill," a s(inalter called it, — and then skirled the side of that hill, passinj^, aloui;- precipitous stone blufls and aniout^ stunted cedars. Above us towered cliff o\'er cliff, almost i)eri)endicularly; below us rolled the ri\-er.

1 was deeply impressed by the cliaui^in^ beauties of this stran_i;e Kentucky scenery, but marveled at the fact that while I became light-hearted and enthusiastic, my guide grew corre- spondingly despondent and gloomy. From time to time he lapsed into thoughtful silence, and once I caught his e)'e directed toward me in a manner that I inferred to imply either pity or envy. We passed Biswell's Bluff, and left the Cumberland River at its upper extremity, where another small creek empties into the river. Thence, after ascending the creek some distance, we struck across the country, finding it undulating and fertile, with here and there a small clearing. During this journey we either camped out at night, or stopped with a resident, when one was to be found in that sparsely settled country. Some- times there were exasperating intervals between our meals; but we did not suffer, for we carried with us supplies of food, such as cheese and crackers, purchased in Smithland, for emergencies. We thus proceeded a considerable distance into Livingston County, Kentucky.

I observed remarkable sinks in the earth, sometimes cone- shaped, again precipitous. These cavities were occasionally of considerable size and depth, and they were more numerous in the uplands than in the bottoms. They were somewhat like the familiar "sink-holes" of New York State, but monstrous in comparison. The first that attracted my attention was near the Cumberland River, just before we reached Biswell's Hill. It was about forty feet deep and thirty in diameter, with precipitous stone sides, shrubbers- growing therein in exceptional spots where loose earth had collected on shelves of stone that cropped out

K8 ICTlDORIirA.

alon<jf its rugged sides. The bottom of the depression was flat and fertile, covered with a hixuriant mass of vej^etation. On one side of the ])ase of the j^ij^antic bowl, a cavern struck down into the earth. I stood upon the ed^a- of this funnel-like sink, and marveled at its peculiar api)earance. A s])irit of curiosity, such as often influences men when an unusual natural scene presents itself, possessed me. I clambered down, swinjj^in^ frou) brush to brush, and stepping from shelving-rock to shelving-rock, until I reached the bottom of the hollow, and placing my hand above the black hole in its center, I perceived that a current of cold air was rushing therefrom, upward. I probed with a long stick, but the direction of the opening was tortuous, and would not admit of examination in that manner. I dropped a large pebble-stone into the orifice ; the pebble rolled and clanked down, down, and at last, the sound died away in the distance.

"I wish that I could go into the cavity as that stone has done, and find the secrets of this cave," I reflected, the natural love of exploration possessing me as it probably does most men.

My companion above, seated on the brink of the stone wall, replied to my thoughts : " Your wish shall be granted. You have requested that which has already been laid out for you. You will explore where few men have passed before, and will have the privilege of following your destiny into a realm of natural wonders. A fertile field of investigation awaits you, such as will surpass your most vivid inuiginings. Come and seat yourself beside me, for it is my duty now to tell you something about the land we are approaching, the cavern fields of Kentucky."

cn.\i^Ti-:K xiii.

TIN'; ITNCH-i;()\VI.S AM) CA\i;k.\S oi. Ki:.\T(CKV.— "into THK

rxK\( )\v.\ corxTKv."

"Tliis pail (.r KciiUK-k\- borders a field ..fcaxcrns tliat readies Iroin near the vSlale of 'IViinesscc to the Ohio River, and from ihe moiilli of tlie Cuniberlaiid, eastward to and beyond the center of tlie State. This crreat area is of irregular outline, and as yet has been little explored. Underneath the surface are layers of limestone and sandstone rock, the deposits ranging from ten to one hundred and fifty feet in thickness, and o7tcn great masses of conglomerate appear. This conglomerate some- times caps the ridges, and varies in thickness from a few feet onl>-, t(^ sixty, or even a hundred, feet. It is of a diversified character, sometimes largely composed of pebbles cemented together by iron ore into compact beds, while again it passes abruptly into gritty sandstone, or a fine-grained compact rock destitute of pebbles. Sometimes the conglomerate rests directly on the limestone, but in the section about us, more often argil- laceous shales or veins of coal intervene, and occasionally inferior and sujicrior layers of conglomerate arc separated by a bed of coal. In addition, lead-bearing veins now and then crop up, the crystals of galena being disseminated through masses of fluor- spar, calc-spar, limestone and clay, which fill fissures between tilted walls of limestone and hard quartzose sandstone. \'alleys, hills, and mountains, grow out of this remarkable crust. Rivers and creeks How through and under it in crevices, cither directlv upon the bedstone or over deposits of clay which underlie it. In .some places, beds of coal or slate alternate with layers of the lime rock; in others, the interspace is clay aiul sand. Sometimes the depth of the .several limestone and conglomerate deposits is great, and they are often hone\combed by innumerable transverse and diagonal spaces. Water drips have here and there washed out the more friable earth and stone, forming grottoes which are

DO f;tidorhpa.

as yet unknown to men, but whicli will be discovered to be wonderful and fantastic beyond an\thing of a like nature now familiar. In other places cavities exist between shelves of rock that lie one above the other — monstrous openings caused bv the erosive action of rivers now lost, but that have flowed during unnumbered ages past ; great parallel valleys and gigantic chambers, one over the other, remaining to tell the story of these former torrents. Occasionally the weight of a portion of the disintegrating rock above becomes too great for its tensile strength and the material crumbles and falls, producing caverns sometimes reaching so near to the earth's surface, as to cause sinks in its crust. These sinks, when first formed, as a rule, pre- sent clear rock fractures, and immediately after their formation there is usually a water-way beneath. In the course of time soil collects on their sides, they become cone-shaped hollows from the down-slidings of earth, and then vegetation appears on the living soil ; trees grow within them, and in many places the sloping sides of great earth bowls of this nature are, after untold years, covered with the virgin forest; magnificent timber trees growing on soil that has been stratified over and upon decayed monarchs of the forest whose remains, imbedded in the earth, speak of the ages that have passed since the convulsions that made the depressions which, notwithstanding the accumulated debris, are still a hundred feet or more in depth. If the drain or exit at the vortex of one of these sinks becomes clogged, which often occurs, the entire cavity fills with water, and a pond results. Again, a slight orifice reaching far beneath the earth's surface may permit the soil to be gradually washed into a subterranean creek, and thus are formed great bowls, like funnels sunk in the earth — Kentucky punch-bowls.

" Take the country about us, especially towards the Mammoth Cave, and for miles beyond, the landscape in certain localities is pitted with this description of sinks, some recent, others very old. Alany are small, but deep ; others are large and shallow. Ponds often of great depth, curiously enough overflowing and giving rise to a creek, are to be found on a ridge, telling of underground supply springs, not outlets, beneath. Chains of such sinks, like a row of huge funnels, often appear; the soil between them is slowly washed through their exit into the river,

THI-; prNciM'.()\vi,s Axn cavivRns or kivxtuckv. 91

flowiiij;- ill the depths l)clo\v, and as the earth that separates them is carried away by the subterranean streams, the bowls coalesce, and a ravine, closed at both ends, results. Along the bottom of such a ravine, a creek may flow, rushing from its natural tunnel at one end of the line, and disappearing in a gulf at the other. The stream begins in mystery, and ends in unfathomed darkness. Near Marion, Hurricane Creek thus disappears, and, so far as men know, is lost to sight forever. Near Criders\'ille, in this neighborhood, a valley such as I liave described, takes in the surface floods of a large tract of country. The waters that run down its sides, during a storm form a torrent, and fence-rails, timbers, and other objects are gulped into the chasm where the creek plunges into the earth, and they never appear again. This part of Kentucky is the most remarkable portion of the known world, and although now neglected, in a time to come is surely destined to an extended distinction. I have referred only to the surface, the skin formation of this honeycombed labyrinth, the entrance to the future wonderland (jf the world. Portioiis of such a superficial ca\-ern maze ha\-e been traversed b\- man in the ramifications known as the Mammoth Ca\-e, but deeper than man lias yet explored, the subcutaneous structure of that series of caverns is yet to be investigated. The IMammoth Cave as now traversed is simply a superficial series of grottoes and passages overlying the deeper cavern field that I have described. The explored chain of passages is of great interest to men, it is true, but of minor importance compared to others yet unknown, being in fact, the result of mere surface erosion. The river that bisects the cave, just beneath the surface of the earth, and known as Kcho River, is a miniature stream : there are others more mag- nificent that flow majestically far, far beneath it. As we descend into the earth in that locality, caverns multiply in number and increase in size, retaining the general configuration of those I have described. The layers of rock are thicker, the inter\-ening spaces broader; and the spaces stretch in increasingly expanded cliambers for miles, while high above each series of caverns the solid ceilings of stone arch and interarch. vShcltered under these subterrene alcoves are streams, lakes, rivers and water-falls. Near the surface of the earth such waters often teem with aquatic life, and some of the caves are inhabited by species of birds, reptiles

92 I:TI1)()RIII'A.

and mammals as yet unknown to men, creatnres possessed of senses and organs that are different from any we find with surface animals, and also apparently defective in particulars that would startle persons acquainted only willi creatures that live in the sunshine. It is a world beneath a world, a world within a world — " My guide abruptly stopped.

I sat entranced, marveling at the young-old adept's knowl- ed-J^e, admiring his accomplishments. I gazed into the cavity that yawned l)eneath me, and imagined its possible but to me invisible secrets, enraptured with the thought of searching into them. Who would not feel elated at the prospect of an explor- ation, such as I foresaw might be pursued in my immediate future? I had often been charmed with narrative descriptions of discoveries, and book accounts of scientific investigations, but I had never pictured myself as a participant in such fascinating enterprises.

'' Indeed, indeed," I cried exultingly; "lead me to this Won- derland, show me the entrance to this Subterranean World, and I promise willingly to do as you bid."

"Bravo!" he replied, "your heart is right, your courage sufficient ; I have not disclosed a thousandth i)art of the wonders which I have knowledge of, and which await your research, and probably I have not gained even an insight into the mysteries that, if your courage permits, you will be pri\ileged to comprehend. Your destiny lies beyond, far beyond that which I have pictured or experienced; and I, notwithstanding my opportunities, have no conception of its end, for at the critical moment my heart faltered — I can therefore only describe the beginning."

Thus at the lower extremity of Biswell's Hill, I was made aware of the fact tliat, within a short time, I should be separated from my sympathetic guide, and that it was to be my duty to explore alone, or in other company, some portion of these Kentucky cavern deeps, and I longed for the beginning of ni\' underground journey. Heavens! how different would have been my future life could I then have reali/.ed my ]K)sition ! Would that I could have seen the end. .After a few days of uneventful travel, we rested, one afternoon, in a hilly country that before us appeared to be more rugged, even mountainous. We had wandered leisurelv, and were now at a considerable distance from

THI-: ITXCH-HOWI.S AND CAVI-.RNS Ol' KIvXTT'CKV. 93

the Cuniljerhuul Ri\cr, tlic aim of my <^ui(le beino^, as I surmised, to evade a direct api)roach to some object of interest wliich I must not locate exacth', and yet which I sliall tr\- to describe accnrateh- enough for identification by a person familiar with the topog- rapliy of that section. We stood on the side of a stonv, slojjing hill, back of which sjjread a wooded, undiilatinjj^ vallew

" I rcnK'in1)(,r to hax'e passed ah^ni^ a creek in that valle\-," I remarked, U)okin;^ back over onr pathway. " It appeared to rise from this direction, but the source ends abruptl)' in this chain of liills."

" The stream is beneath us," he answered. Advancing a few paces, he brought to my attention, on the hillside, an opening in the earth. This aperture was irregular in form, about the diameter of a well, and descended perpendicularly into the stonv crust. I leaned far over the orifice, and heard the gurgle of rushing water beneath. The guide dropped a heavv stone into the gloomy shaft, and in some seconds a dull splash announced its plunge into underground water. Then he leaned over the