rospect was
not inviting. The reading of other people's manuscripts is surely the
crucial test of a devoted benevolence. There are few ways in which I am
so little ready to oblige my fellow-men. I had, indeed, at times, been
induced to inspect sundry romances in blotted embryo; but, as yet,
nobody had called upon me with a system of philosophy. _Printed_
philosophy is none too easy reading. But to sit there, under the
guardianship of Clifton, and spell out the dim dogmatism of some
nebulous fanatic,--of course it was not to be thought of for a moment.
With a _suave_ periphrasis of speech I questioned the expediency of the
proposition.

"I shall ring for candles that will burn during the night," said Mr.
Clifton, heedless of my expostulation. "Also some refreshment. You take
tea, I suppose? You shall read the first ten pages of Vannelle's
writing. It is possible you may exercise self-control enough to abandon
it unfinished. But you will not sleep tonight."

There was a confidence in the minister's tone which gave rather
unpleasant emphasis to this final prophecy. Still, I believed myself
capable of the ten pages without establishing a hopelessly wakeful
condition,--indeed, it was something to be guarantied against the
opposite infirmity. The tea, accompanied by a few thin shavings of
toast, presently arrived. The means of procuring light were also
furnished us. Clifton's hand lay heavily upon the manuscript until the
attendant had disappeared for the last time, and the door was locked
behind him. He then opened the papers before me, and signified that the
time had come. I braced myself as for a serious undertaking.

Thus I accepted the task. How give words to the singular emotions which
soon possessed me? As if some charm, some spell of magnetism, had been
given to the paper, my whole consciousness was riveted upon it. I know
not how to represent this bold, this startling attempt to establish a
positive basis for metaphysical philosophy, an exact science of all
things human and divine. Here was a man, perchance of more courage and
conscience, perchance of more devilish recklessness, than any of his
contemporaries. But how deal with what came to me from that wondrous
writing in the ambiguities of common language? All thought--even
supposing it embodied in a perfect form of speech--is subject to the
limitations of the recipient mind. My own glimpses of the writer's
meaning were necessarily most indistinct. I cannot atte