. And this evening I expect
Evagrus, the celebrated father, with whom I shall discuss the most
recent ecclesiastical affairs, as I did poetry yesterday. I often go up
to the top of that hill there, whence the towers of Alexandria are to
be seen distinctly in clear weather, and the most wonderful and
interesting events happen before my eyes. Many people have thought
_that_ incredible, too, and considered that I only _fancy_ I see before
me, in actual life, what is merely born in my mind and imagination. Now
_I_ say _that_ is the most incomprehensible piece of folly that can
exist. What is it, except the mind, which takes cognizance of what
happens around us in time and space? What is it that hears, and feels,
and sees? Is it the lifeless mechanism which we call eyes, ears, hands,
etc., and not the mind? Does the mind give form and shape to that
peculiar world of its own which has space and time for its conditions
of existence, and _then_ hand over the functions of seeing, hearing,
etc., to some _other_ principle inherent in us? How illogical!
Therefore, if it is the mind only which takes cognizance of events
around us, it follows that that which it has taken cognizance of _has_
actually occurred. Last evening only, Ariosto was speaking of the
images of his fancy, and saying he had created in his brain forms and
events which had never existed in time and space. I at once denied the
possibility of this, and he was obliged to allow that it was only from
lack of a higher knowledge that a poet would box up within the narrow
limits of his brain that which, by virtue of his peculiar seer gift, he
was enabled to see in full life before him. But the complete
acquirement of this higher knowledge only comes after martyrdom, and is
strengthened by the life in profound solitude. You don't appear to
agree with me; probably you don't understand me here. Indeed how should
a child of this world, however well disposed, understand an anchorite
consecrated in all his works and ways to God? Let me tell you what
happened before my eyes, as I was standing this morning at sunrise at
the top of that hill.'

"He then related a regular romance, with a plot and incidents such as
only the most imaginative poet could have constructed. The characters
and events stood out with such a vivid, plastic relief, that it was
impossible--carried away as one was by the magic spell of them--to help
believing, as if in a species of dream, that Serapion had actual