a work as an epic poem should open modestly,
with an invocation."

"No, sir," said Alfred. "I think that rather
an arbitrary and peevish canon of friend Horace.
The Æneid, you know, begins just as he says an
Epic ought not to begin; and the Æneid is the
greatest Latin Epic. In the next place, the use
of Modesty is to keep a man from writing an
Epic Poem at all; but, if he will have that
impudence, why then he had better have the courage
to plunge into the Castalian stream, like Virgil
and Lucan, not crawl in funking and holding on
by the Muse's apron-string. But—excuse me—
quorsum hæc tam putida tendunt? what have the
Latiu poets to do with this modern's Sanity or
Insanity?"

Mr. Abbott snorted contemptuously in support
of the query. But Dr. Eskell smiled, and said:
"Continue to answer me as intelligently, and
yon may find it has a great deal to do with it."

Alfred took this hint, and said artfully, "Mine
was a thoughtless remark; of course a gentleman
of your experience can test the mind on any
subject however trivial." He added, piteously,
"Still, if yon would but leave the poets, who are
all half crazy themselves, and examine me in the
philosophers, of Antiquity, surely it would be a
higher criterion."

Dr. Wycherley explained in a patronising
whisper, "He labours under an abnormal
contempt for poetry, dating from his attack.
Previously to that he actually obtained a prize poem
himself."

"Well, doctor; and after that am I wrong to
despise poetry?"

They might have comprehended this on paper,
but spoken it was too keen for them all three.
The visitors stared. Dr. Wycherley came to their
aid: "You might examine my young friend for
hours, and not detect the one crevice in the
brilliancy of his intellectual armour."

The maniac made a face as of one that drinketh
verjuice suddenly. "For pity's sake, doctor,
don't be so inaccurate: say a spot on the
brilliancy, or a crevice in the armour; but not a
crevice in the brilliancy. My good friend here,
gentlemen, deals in conjectural certificates and
broken metaphors. He dislocates more tropes,
to my sorrow, than even his friend Shakespeare,
whom he thinks a greater philosopher than Aris
totle, and who calls the murder of an individual
sleeper the murder of sleep, confounding the
concrete with the abstract, and then talks of
taking arms against a sea of troubles; query, a
cork jacket and a flask of brandy."

"Well, Mr. Hardie," said Dr. Eskell, rather
feebly, "let me tell you those passages which so
shock your peculiar notions, are among the most
applauded."

"Very likely, sir," retorted the maniac, whose
logic was up; " but applauded only in a nation
where the floods clap their hands every Sunday
morning, and we all pray for peace, giving as our
exquisite reason that we have got the God of
hosts on our side in war."

Mr. Abbott, the other commissioner, had
endured all this chat with an air of weary indifference.
He now said to Dr. Wycherley, "I wish
to put you a question or two in private."

Alfred was horribly frightened: this was the
very dodge that had ruined him at Silverton
House. "Oh no, gentlemen," he cried, imploringly.
"Let me have fair play. You have given
me no secret audience; then why give my
accuser one? I am charged with a single delusion;
for mercy's sake go to the point at once, and
examine me on that head."

"Now you talk sense," said Mr. Abbott; as
if the previous topics had been chosen by Alfred.

"But that will excite him," objected Dr.
Eskell: "it always does excite them."

"It excites the insane, but not the sane," said
Alfred. "So there is another test; you will
observe whether it excites me." Then, before
they could interrupt him, he glided on: "The
supposed hallucination is this: I strongly
suspect my father, a bankrupt—and therefore
dishonest—banker, of having somehow misappropriated
a sum of fourteen thousand pounds, which
sum is known to have been brought from India
by one Captain Dodd, and has disappeared."

"Stop a minute," said Mr. Abbott. "Who
knows it, besides you?"

"The whole family of the Dodds. They will
show you his letter from India, announcing his
return with the money."

"Where do they live?"

"Albion Villa, Barkington."

Mr. Abbott noted the address in his book, and
Alfred, mightily cheered and encouraged by this
sensible act, went on to describe the various
indications, which, insufficient singly, had by their
united force driven him to his conclusion. When
he described David's appearance and words on
his father's lawn at night, Wycherley interrupted
him quietly: "Are you quite sure this was not a
vision, a phantom of the mind heated by your
agitation, and your suspicions?"

Dr. Eskell nodded assent, knowing nothing
about the matter.

"Pray, doctor, was I the only person who saw
this vision?" inquired Alfred, slily.

"I conclude so," said Wycherley, with an
admirable smile.

"But why do you conclude so? because you
are one of those who reason in a circle of assumptions.
Now it happens that Captain Dodd was
seen and felt on that occasion by three persons
besides myself."

"Name them," said Mr. Abbott, sharply.

"A policeman called Reynolds, another police
man, whose name I don't know, and Miss Julia
Dodd. The policemen helped me lift Captain
Dodd off the grass, sir; Julia met us close by,
and we four carried Dr. Wycherley's phantom
home together to Albion Villa."

Mr. Abbott noted down all the names, and
then turned to Dr. Wycherley. " What do you
say to that?"

"I say it is a very important statement," said