ic assemblage at the Brocken, faces full of frightful
augury, so the author was conscious in the midst of the ball of a demon
who would strike him on the shoulder with a familiar air and say to him:
"Do you notice that enchanting smile? It is a grin of hatred." And then
the demon would strut about like one of the captains in the old comedies
of Hardy. He would twitch the folds of a lace mantle and endeavor to
make new the fretted tinsel and spangles of its former glory. And then
like Rabelais he would burst into loud and unrestrainable laughter, and
would trace on the street-wall a word which might serve as a pendant
to the "Drink!" which was the only oracle obtainable from the heavenly
bottle. This literary Trilby would often appear seated on piles of
books, and with hooked fingers would point out with a grin of malice
two yellow volumes whose title dazzled the eyes. Then when he saw he had
attracted the author's attention he spelt out, in a voice alluring as
the tones of an harmonica, _Physiology of Marriage_! But, almost always
he appeared at night during my dreams, gentle as some fairy guardian;
he tried by words of sweetness to subdue the soul which he would
appropriate to himself. While he attracted, he also scoffed at me;
supple as a woman's mind, cruel as a tiger, his friendliness was more
formidable than his hatred, for he never yielded a caress without also
inflicting a wound. One night in particular he exhausted the resources
of his sorceries, and crowned all by a last effort. He came, he sat on
the edge of the bed like a young maiden full of love, who at first keeps
silence but whose eyes sparkle, until at last her secret escapes her.

"This," said he, "is a prospectus of a new life-buoy, by means of which
one can pass over the Seine dry-footed. This other pamphlet is the
report of the Institute on a garment by wearing which we can pass
through flames without being burnt. Have you no scheme which can
preserve marriage from the miseries of excessive cold and excessive
heat? Listen to me! Here we have a book on the _Art_ of preserving
foods; on the _Art_ of curing smoky chimneys; on the _Art_ of making
good mortar; on the _Art_ of tying a cravat; on the _Art_ of carving
meat."

In a moment he had named such a prodigious number of books that the
author felt his head go round.

"These myriads of books," says he, "have been devoured by readers; and
while everybody does not build a house, and some grow hungry, a