y nightmare."

But still the man drew nearer, and I began to perceive my error.
Gamekeepers do not usually paint their faces red and green, neither do
they wear scalp-locks, a tuft of eagle's feathers, moccasins, and buffalo-
hide cloaks, embroidered with representations of war and the chase. This
was the accoutrement of the stranger who now approached me, and whose
copper-coloured complexion indicated that he was a member of the Red
Indian, or, as the late Mr. Morgan called it the "Ganowanian" race. The
stranger's attire was old and clouted; the barrel of his flint-lock
musket was rusted, and the stock was actually overgrown with small
funguses. It was a peculiarity of this man that everything he carried
was more or less broken and outworn. The barrel of his piece was riven,
his tomahawk was a mere shard of rusted steel, on many of his
accoutrements the vapour of fire had passed. He approached me with a
stately bearing, and, after saluting me in the fashion of his people,
gave me to know that he welcomed me to the land of spirits, and that he
was deputed to carry me to the paradise of the Ojibbeways. "But, sir," I
cried in painful confusion, "there is here some great mistake. I am no
Ojibbeway, but an Agnostic; the after-life of spirits is only (as one of
our great teachers says) 'an hypothesis based on contradictory
probabilities;' and I really must decline to accompany you to a place of
which the existence is uncertain, and which, if it does anywhere exist,
would be uncongenial in the extreme to a person of my habits."

To this remonstrance my Ojibbeway Virgil answered, in effect, that in the
enormous passenger traffic between the earth and the next worlds mistakes
must and frequently do occur. Quisque suos patimur manes, as the Roman
says, is the rule, but there are many exceptions. Many a man finds
himself in the paradise of a religion not his own, and suffers from the
consequences. This was, in brief, the explanation of my guide, who could
only console me by observing that if I felt ill at ease in the Ojibbeway
paradise, I might, perhaps, be more fortunate in that of some other
creed. "As for your Agnostics," said he, "their main occupation in their
own next world is to read the poetry of George Eliot and the
philosophical works of Mr. J. S. Mill." On hearing this, I was much
consoled for having missed the entrance to my proper sphere, and I
prepared to follow my guide with cheerful alacrity, into the