almost three hundred years ago. I had a character through life of
loving a jest, and did not belie it at the last. But I had also as
general a reputation for sincerity, and of that also conclusive
proof was given at the same time. In serious truth, then, I am a
disembodied spirit, and the form in which I now manifest myself is
subject to none of the accidents of matter. You are still
incredulous! Feel, then, and be convinced!

My incomprehensible guest extended his hand toward me as he spoke.
I held forth mine to accept it, not, indeed, believing him, and yet
not altogether without some apprehensive emotion, as if I were about
to receive an electrical shock. The effect was more startling than
electricity would have produced. His hand had neither weight nor
substance; my fingers, when they would have closed upon it, found
nothing that they could grasp: it was intangible, though it had all
the reality of form.

"In the name of God," I exclaimed, "who are you, and wherefore are
you come?"

"Be not alarmed," he replied. "Your reason, which has shown you the
possibility of such an appearance as you now witness, must have
convinced you also that it would never be permitted for an evil end.
Examine my features well, and see if you do not recognise them.
Hans Holbein was excellent at a likeness."

I had now for the first time in my life a distinct sense of that
sort of porcupinish motion over the whole scalp which is so
frequently described by the Latin poets. It was considerably
allayed by the benignity of his countenance and the manner of his