Of course we had no sooner established ourselves at No. ——­ than we began to expect ghosts.  We absolutely awaited their advent with eagerness.  Our dinner conversation was supernatural.  One of the boarders, who had purchased Mrs. Crowe’s Night Side of Nature for his own private delectation, was regarded as a public enemy by the entire household for not having bought twenty copies.  The man led a life of supreme wretchedness while he was reading this volume.  A system of espionage was established, of which he was the victim.  If he incautiously laid the book down for an instant and left the room, it was immediately seized and read aloud in secret places to a select few.  I found myself a person of immense importance, it having leaked out that I was tolerably well versed in the history of supernaturalism, and had once written a story the foundation of which was a ghost.  If a table or a wainscot panel happened to warp when we were assembled in the large drawing-room, there was an instant silence, and everyone was prepared for an immediate clanking of chains and a spectral form.

After a month of psychological excitement, it was with the utmost dissatisfaction that we were forced to acknowledge that nothing in the remotest degree approaching the supernatural had manifested itself.  Once the black butler asseverated that his candle had been blown out by some invisible agency while he was undressing himself for the night; but as I had more than once discovered this colored gentleman in a condition when one candle must have appeared to him like two, thought it possible that, by going a step further in his potations, he might have reversed this phenomenon, and seen no candle at all where he ought to have beheld one.

Things were in this state when an accident took place so awful and inexplicable in its character that my reason fairly reels at the bare memory of the occurrence.  It was the tenth of July.  After dinner was over I repaired, with my friend Dr. Hammond, to the garden to smoke my evening pipe.  Independent of certain mental sympathies which existed between the Doctor and myself, we were linked together by a vice.  We both smoked opium.  We knew each other’s secret, and respected it.  We enjoyed together that wonderful expansion of thought, that marvelous intensifying of the perceptive faculties, that boundless feeling of existence when we seem to have points of contact with the whole universe,—­in short, that unimaginable spiritual bliss, which I would not surrender for a throne, and which I hope you, reader, will never—­never taste.

Those hours of opium happiness which the Doctor and I spent together in secret were regulated with a scientific accuracy.  We did not blindly smoke the drug of paradise, and leave our dreams to chance.  While smoking, we carefully steered our conversation through the brightest and calmest channels of thought.  We talked of the East, and endeavored to recall the magical panorama of its glowing scenery.  We criticized the most sensuous poets,—­those who painted life ruddy with health, brimming with passion, happy in the possession of youth and strength and beauty.  If we talked of Shakespeare’s Tempest, we lingered over Ariel, and avoided Caliban.  Like the Guebers, we turned our faces to the East, and saw only the sunny side of the world.