investigations, hindrances have arisen in such an extraordinary way that I could not attribute them to chance.

Thus, for instance, I had resolved one morning to make an expedition with an antiquarian in order to solve the question once for all. In the street before my door a nail came loose in my boot and stuck in my foot. At first I took no notice of it, but as I approached my friend's door the pain became so great that I had to stand still. It was impossible to proceed, or to turn back. In great annoyance I drew off my boot and flattened the nail with my knife. A vague remembrance of a passage I had read in Swedenborg came to me simultaneously— "When the avenging spirits see an evil act, or the intention to commit a wrong, they punish by inflicting pain in the foot, the hand, or the neighbourhood of the diaphragm." But I was so spurred on by the thirst for knowledge, which I regarded as lawful and praiseworthy, that I resumed my interrupted attempt, and soon joined my companion. We intended first to investigate a grotto in the park. But the entrance was blocked up with heaps of abominable filth piled up in such a challenging or rather ironical way as to make me smile. The other place, well known to me, where these stones are to be found, is in a garden, where great blocks of them are grouped round a tree, and they are easily got at. But this morning the gardener has fenced off the tree and the antiquities with a row of flower-pots, so that I cannot get there to show my learned companion anything. A pretty fiasco! Irritated by all these hindrances, I take my friend, who begins to look sceptical, right through the town to a courtyard where a whole museum of these curiosities has been collected. There the matter will be settled once for all, and I expect to see him startled. On our arrival we are greeted by the barking of a vile cur; as we endeavour to drive him off, the occupants of the house come into the courtyard, and we have to shout what we want in order to drown the noise of the barking dog. The objects of our search are surrounded by a closed fence, and the key cannot be found.

"Are there any other places?" asks the antiquarian, who begins to despise me.

"Yes, there are, but outside the town."

I will not weary the reader with trifles. Suffice it to say, that after more or less vexatious wanderings, we did at last reach a pile of such stones. But there was witchcraft at work; I could show the antiquarian nothing, because he saw nothing, and I myself, as though dazzled, could not now distinguish in the shapes of the stones anything resembling living creatures. But on the next day, when I went to the place alone, I found a whole menagerie.

The account of this adventure may close with a note regarding the character of these remains of pre-Adamite sculpture. The occultists attribute their origin to men of the Tertiary period, and place them in the same category as the colossal stone image found in the Easter Islands and in the desert of Gobi. Olaus Magnus mentions them also, and has found them in great numbers on the coast of Braviken in East Gothland. Swedenborg attributes to them a symbolical significance, and regards them as artistic products of the silver age.

To judge by what takes place in the narrow circle in which I live, the Powers do not allow me to chose my acquaintances, and still less to despise any one, whoever it may be. Like everyone else, I have sympathies and partialities for certain kinds of people. At present I seek for those seriously disposed, to whom I can impart my thoughts without being exposed to unpleasant and insulting jests. Providence has sent me a friend whom I prize highly on account of the pure atmosphere which surrounds him. Like a spoilt child I begin to despise the other uncultivated and uninspired souls, who occasionally find pleasure in coarseness.

But just as I return, I found my friend has gone away. I cannot meet the others anywhere, and in my isolation I am compelled to humble myself to the utmost by begging for the society of insignificant persons, who, as a rule, have nothing to do with the society in which I move. After a number of experiences in this direction I make my old discovery again, that the difference between man and man is not so great as one supposes. As a matter of fact I have found real gentlemen among the lower classes, and how many saints and heroes may I not have unconsciously classed with those I despised! On the other hand, people lay stress on the proverb, "Evil companionship corrupts good manners"; but which is evil society, and which is the good? It might be supposed, as I have done, that a mission to preach was laid upon me, if I settled down in a strange town, without knowing why, but what is my business here? To preach morality? My conscience answers me "Yes; by thy example." But now no one takes me for an example, and what would be the use if I tried to preach to young men who have not sinned as much as I have?

Besides, the period of the prophets seems to have come to an end. The Powers want to have nothing more to do with priests, but have taken the direct government of souls upon themselves, and one need not go far to find examples of this.

One of our poets has recently been summoned before a court because of a collection of poems, some of which were considered injurious to morality. He has been acquitted by the jury, but can find no rest. In one of his poems he has challenged the Eternal to a wrestle, even though (he said) it should have to be decided in hell. It seems as though the challenge had been accepted, and the young man were compelled, like a broken reed, to sue for mercy. One evening, while he sits in a merry circle of friends, some power, unknown to the exact sciences, snatches the cigar from his mouth so that it falls to the ground. A little surprised, he picks up the cigar again, as though nothing had happened. But the same thing happens three times. Then the sceptic becomes as pale as death, and quits the place in silence, while his friends sit mute with astonishment.

But when he reached home the rash man found a new surprise awaiting him. Without any visible cause, both his hands like those of a masseur began to chafe or rather to knead his whole body, which too much drinking had made unnecessarily obese. This involuntary massage continued without interruption for fourteen days, yet at the end of this time the wrestler feels himself sufficiently strengthened to enter the arena again. He hires an hotel and invites his friends to a Belshazzar's feast, which is to last three days. He means to show the world how Nietzsche's superman can control the evil spirits of wine. They drink through the whole of the first day till night falls, and with it falls the champion. But before he gives up the battle for lost the demons of wine take possession of the soul of this superman and fill him with such uncontrollable madness that he flings his guests out of the doors and windows, and so the feast ends. Whereupon the host is taken to an asylum.

Thus the adventure was related to me, and I am sorry to have repeated it without the tears which one owes to misfortune. But the accused has gained a defender for his case, a young doctor, who offers to assist him in his conflict with the Eternal. Is it rash to connect these two facts? The doctor pleads the blasphemer's cause, and the doctor breaks his leg. Was it a mere chance that frightened his horse so that he shied and upset the carriage? I only ask the question. And how did it happen that the doctor, after he had been confined to his bed for several months, got up with a "sprung thigh sinew," that his formerly clear and firm look had a strange and wild expression, like that of a man who is no longer master of himself?

Is it necessary for me to answer? In case one should say "Yes," I continue the narrative to the end. This doctor, a good fellow, intelligent and honest, came to me one day towards the end of summer, and confided to me that he was plagued with sleeplessness, and that a strange irritation woke him at