such as spice cakes and almanacks. Is there really a devil, or is he only a half-real bugbear projected from the unseen in order to make a strong impression on us, and to drive us to the Cross? I had not yet succeeded in finding an answer to this question, when, one cold, wet evening my friends took me to a sculptor, who is a freethinker and atheist, as are the other members of the theosophical society to which he belongs. He has a private collection of clay ornaments on view intended for the Stockholm Exhibition. In these, with repulsive realism and cynicism, the Devil is represented in different attitudes, and always with a priest who is terrified at him. People laugh at them, but I cannot laugh, and think to myself "Wait, and we shall see!" After an interval of four months I meet the sculptor in the street. He looks troubled, as though some misfortune had happened to him. "Can you imagine," he says, "such a piece of infernal bad luck? They have just broken three of my best figures in unpacking them at the Exhibition." I feel immensely interested, and simultaneously with my condolence over his misfortune I ask with almost shameless curiosity, "And which of your statuettes were they?"

"Three of the Devil, I believe."

I do not laugh, but answer with a smile, "There, you see! Lucifer does not like to be caricatured."

Some weeks later the sculptor receives another letter, and learns that the other figures have fallen from their pedestals and been broken, without the managers being able to say how it has happened. Consequently the unfortunate artist has lost a year, not counting the costs of production, and he finds himself struck out of the list of exhibitors. In his despondency he comforts himself by attributing it to accident, which means nothing, and yet which saves a man's pride, while bowing to blind Chance. One stoops one's head before a stone flung at one, but what of the flinger whom one is not conscious of having seen?

Meanwhile I obtain Swedenborg's works, one after another, and always at some favourable moment. In his "Dreams" I find all the symptoms of my illness, the nightly attacks and the difficulty in breathing. The facts which he records in these notes belong to the time before he had his revelations. That was for Swedenborg the period of "desolation," when he was delivered over to Satan for the destruction of the flesh. This helps me to understand the beneficent purposes of the invisible powers, without, however, bringing me comfort. Not till I read Heaven and Hell do I begin to get help. There is, then, an object in these mysterious sufferings—the improvement and development of my personality to something greater, something like Nietzsche's imaginary ideal, but differently conceived.

The Devil is not an independent being, equal to God, and His opponent. The invisible power which plagues us is the Spirit of discipline. A great step is taken when we see that evil does not exist for evil's sake, and we conceive a new hope of finding peace through penitence and conscientious watchfulness over our thoughts and actions. As I watch the events of daily life, a new method of education begins to operate upon me, and I learn to recognise, the system of signs which the invisible powers use. But my difficulties are great because of my age and the inveteracy of evil habits, and in consequence of a certain yieldingness of disposition I am all too prone to suit myself to my surroundings. It is so hard to be the first to quit a merry carouse; if I try to insist on my own way, my intimate friends call me "a bad boon-companion." But one has to learn to do everything in this world.

For instance, at dinner, which I take at two o'clock, I had been accustomed to remain behind for coffee. One day at the beginning of February I am sitting there with my back against the outer wall, when my friends begin to discuss whether they shall order a bowl of punch. Instantly there comes a direct answer in the form of a terrible noise behind my back, so that the cups of coffee on the tray jump. It can be imagined what kind of a face I make. The cause of the noise is quite simple,—a workman is repairing the decoration of the wall outside.

We adjourn to a special room. Immediately there breaks out a noise on the ceiling over my head. I rise and fly from the battlefield, and from that hour I never remain for coffee after dinner except on holidays. In the evening, on the other hand, I can drink a glass with my friends, since the object is not so much drink as the interchange of thought with learned people, who represent all branches of science. But often it happens that mere love of drink gets the upper hand, accompanied by unbridled hilarity and cynical suggestions. One's lower nature breaks through and the brutal instincts find free scope. It is so pleasant to be an animal for a while, one thinks to oneself, and besides life is not always so cheerful, and so on, to the same effect. One day, after I have for some time taken part in riotous drinking bouts, I am on the way to my restaurant. I pass by an undertaker's shop where a coffin is exposed to view. The street is strewn with fir branches, and the great bell of the cathedral is tolling a knell. Arrived at the restaurant, I find my table companion in trouble, as he has come straight from the hospital, where he has taken leave of a dying friend. As I return home after dinner by back streets, where I have not been before, I meet two funeral processions. How everything reeks of death to-day, and the tolling of the knell recommences!

In the evening, as I am about to enter the tavern, I see an old man leaning against the wall, obviously drunk and ill. In order not to meet him, I make a detour and enter the dining-hall. My headache from yesterday's debauch, combined with the funereal impressions I have received in the course of the day, inspire me with a secret fear of alcohol, so that I order milk for my supper.

In the midst of the meal there is a noise in the house mingled with cries of grief, and after a little while they carry in the old man I had seen near the entrance, his son leading the procession. His father was dead. A warning for drinkers!

In the night following I had a terrible attack of nightmare. Some one hung fast on to my back and shook me by the shoulders. This was sufficient cause for me to be careful how I prolonged my drinking to a late hour. But I did not entirely renounce it. At the end of January I take rooms in a private house, and confront my fate steadfastly without seeking to find distraction in the presence of a friend. It is a duel, and there is no possibility of escape. As soon as I come home in the evening I ascertain at once how it stands with my conscience. A choking atmosphere, even when the windows are open, gives warning of a bad night. The terrible fear I feel brings on fever accompanied with a cold sweat, and when I search my conscience I at once find where the shoe pinches. But I fly no more, for it is useless.

Among the lessons which the avenging powers have given me is one which I dare not forget, that is, the command not to search into hidden things, because they are to remain hidden.

For instance, in my excursions in Schonen, I had noticed a kind of stones found in scattered places of peculiar and very characteristic shapes. They represented either types of living creatures, such as birds, or hats and helmets. There were also others with furrows which resembled the tracings on meteoric stones. Without being clear as to their origin, I received the impression that they were not a mere freak of nature. Their form showed that they were works of art, produced and elaborated by human hands. For two years I continued to look for them, and after I had interested a friend of mine who lived at a distance in the matter, I told him where some could be found, that he might send me a photograph of them. But the expedition failed, and a year later I discovered that I had given him a wrong address. Ever since then, when I have obstinately set about such