iend without having seen him. Every one
accustomed to solitary thought has probably recognized this kind of
mental action, and speculated on the strange duality of Nature implied
in it. The spiritualists call it "impressional communication," and
abandon themselves to its vagaries in the belief that it is really the
speech of angels; men of thought find in it a mystery of mental
organization, and avail themselves of it under the direction of their
reason. I at present speculated with the philosophers; but my
imagination, siding with the spiritualists, assured me that some one
spoke to me, and reason was silenced. I sat still as long as I could
endure it, alone, and then crept back, trembling, to the camp,--feeling
quiet only when surrounded by the rest of the party.

My attendant daemon did not leave me, I found; for now I heard the
question asked, half-tauntingly,--"Subjective or objective?"

I asked myself, in reply,--"Am I mad or sane?"

"Quite sane, but with your eyes opened to something new!" was the
instantaneous reply.

On such expeditions, men get back to the primitive usages and conditions
of humanity. We had arisen at daybreak; darkness brought the disposition
to rest. We arranged ourselves side by side on the couch of balsam and
cedar boughs which the guides had spread on the ground of the camp, our
feet to the fire, and all but myself soon slept. I lay a long time,
excited, looking out through the open front of the camp at the stars
which shone in through the trees, and even they seemed partakers of my
new state of existence, and twinkled consciously and confidentially, as
to one who shared the secret of their own existence and purposes. The
pine-trees overhead had an added tone in their meanings, and indeed
everything, as I regarded it, seemed to manifest a new life, to become
identified with me: Nature and I had all things in common. I slept, at
length,--a strange kind of sleep; for when the guides awoke me, in the
full daylight, I was conscious of some one having talked with me through
the night.

In broad day, with my companions, and in motion, the influences of the
previous evening seemed to withdraw themselves to a remote
distance,--yet I was aware of their awaiting me when I should be
unoccupied. The day was as brilliant, as tranquil as its predecessor,
and the council decided that it should be devoted to a "drive," for we
had eaten the last of our venison for breakfast. The party were assigned
t