nes. When, for a short time, she had gone to sleep, she was awakened
by terrific dreams and nightmares, which made her cry aloud for help,
and exposed the situation she had taken, for the purpose of watching
her parent, and defeating his purpose of self-murder.

I proceeded to the patient's room. When I entered, which I did softly,
I found him lying in bed, with his head, as formerly, bound up in a
handkerchief; a volume of the "Newgate Calendar" lying on his breast.
So occupied was he with his enjoyment of this _morceau_ of horrors,
that he did not notice my entry or approach to his bedside. I stood
and gazed at him. He had finished the page that was open before
him--exhibiting John Torrance, the blacksmith of Hockley. His eye
rested at least five minutes on this horrific picture; and, as he
continued his rapt gaze, he drew deep sighs--his breast heaving with
great force, as if to throw off an unbearable load. He turned the
page, and noticed me.

"You are very intent upon that book," said I. "I hope it _interests_
you."

"Yes," replied he. "My mind has been dead or entranced for a year.
This is the only thing in the world I have met wi' during my sorrow
capable o' putting life into my soul. It seems as if all the energies
that have been lying useless for that period had risen at the magic
power o' this wonderfu book, to pour their collected strength upon its
pages."

"Then it has served its end," said I, doubting greatly the truth of my
own statement. "I sent it for the purpose of entertaining you--that
is--interesting you."

"Entertaining me!" he ejaculated. "You mean, binding my soul wi' iron
bands: my heart now loves the misery it formerly loathed. But, sir, I
am not _fed_ with this food. I devour it wi' a false and ravenous
appetite; and were there a thousand volumes, I think I could read
them a' before I broke bread or closed an ee."

He rolled out these words with a volubility and an enthusiasm that
surprised me. It was clear that I had poisoned the mind of this poor
man. I had stimulated and partly fed his appetite for horrors.
Familiarity with fearful objects kills the terror, and sometimes
raises in its place a morbid affection--a fact established in France
at the end of the last century by an empirical test of a horrific
character, but which no knowledge of man's mind could have dreamed of
_a priori_. Why had I forgotten this matter of history, and allowed
myself to be led astray by vain theories and