l of character as of
terror--therefore the creature of my fancy, or the invention of my poor
stomach? Was it, in short, _subjective_ (to borrow the technical slang
of the day) and not the palpable aggression and intrusion of an external
agent? That, good friend, as we will both admit, by no means follows.
The evil spirit, who enthralled my senses in the shape of that portrait,
may have been just as near me, just as energetic, just as malignant,
though I saw him not. What means the whole moral code of revealed
religion regarding the due keeping of our own bodies, soberness,
temperance, etc.? here is an obvious connexion between the material and
the invisible; the healthy tone of the system, and its unimpaired
energy, may, for aught we can tell, guard us against influences which
would otherwise render life itself terrific. The mesmerist and the
electro-biologist will fail upon an average with nine patients out of
ten--so may the evil spirit. Special conditions of the corporeal system
are indispensable to the production of certain spiritual phenomena. The
operation succeeds sometimes--sometimes fails--that is all.

I found afterwards that my would-be sceptical companion had his troubles
too. But of these I knew nothing yet. One night, for a wonder, I was
sleeping soundly, when I was roused by a step on the lobby outside my
room, followed by the loud clang of what turned out to be a large brass
candlestick, flung with all his force by poor Tom Ludlow over the
banisters, and rattling with a rebound down the second flight of stairs;
and almost concurrently with this, Tom burst open my door, and bounced
into my room backwards, in a state of extraordinary agitation.

I had jumped out of bed and clutched him by the arm before I had any
distinct idea of my own whereabouts. There we were--in our
shirts--standing before the open door--staring through the great old
banister opposite, at the lobby window, through which the sickly light
of a clouded moon was gleaming.

"What's the matter, Tom? What's the matter with you? What the devil's
the matter with you, Tom?" I demanded shaking him with nervous
impatience.

He took a long breath before he answered me, and then it was not very
coherently.

"It's nothing, nothing at all--did I speak?--what did I say?--where's
the candle, Richard? It's dark; I--I had a candle!"

"Yes, dark enough," I said; "but what's the matter?--what _is_ it?--why
don't you speak, Tom?--have you lost your w