I learnt from him that he was born and bred at Benares, in Hindostan; that he had been intended for the priesthood, and had been well instructed in the literature of the east.  That a course of untoward circumstances, upon which he seemed unwilling to dwell, had changed his destination, and made him a wanderer on the face of the earth.  That in the neighbouring kingdom of Siam he had formed an intimacy with a learned French Jesuit, who had not only taught him his language, but imparted to him a knowledge of much of the science of Europe, its institutions and manners.  That after the death of this friend, he had renewed his wanderings; and having been detained in this village by a fit of sickness for some weeks, he was warned that it was time to quit his rambling life.  This place being recommended to him, both by its quiet seclusion, and the unsophisticated manners of its inhabitants, he determined to pass the remnant of his days here, and, by devoting them to the purposes of piety, charity, and science, to discharge his duty to his Creator, his species, and himself; “for the love of knowledge,” he added, “has long been my chief source of selfish enjoyment.”

Our tastes and sentiments accorded in so many points, that our acquaintance ripened by degrees into the closest friendship.  We were both strangers—­both unfortunate; and were the only individuals here who had any knowledge of letters, or of distant parts of the world.  These are, indeed, the main springs of that sympathy, without which there is no love among men.  It is being overwise, to treat with contempt what mankind hold in respect:  and philosophy teaches us not to extinguish our feelings, but to correct and refine them.  My visits to the hermitage were frequently renewed at first, because they afforded me the relief of variety, whilst his intimate knowledge of men and things—­his remarkable sagacity and good sense—­his air of mingled piety and benignity,—­cheated me into forgetfulness of my situation.  As these gradually yielded to the lenitive power of time, I sought his conversation for the positive pleasure it afforded, and at last it became the chief source of my happiness.  Day after day, and month after month, glided on in this gentle, unvarying current, for more than three years; during which period he had occasionally thrown out dark hints that the time would come when I should be restored to liberty, and that he had an important secret, which he would one day communicate.  I should have been more tantalized with the expectations that these remarks were calculated to raise, had I not suspected them to be a good-natured artifice, to save me from despondency, as they were never made except when he saw me looking serious and thoughtful.

CHAPTER II.

The Brahmin’s illness—­He reveals an important secret to Atterley—­ Curious information concerning the Moon—­The Glonglims—­They plan a voyage to the Moon.