And so the old proprietor sighingly departed, leaving the new one smiling on the doorstep.  I was just thinking how nicely the world is arranged, so that one man’s trouble may turn out another man’s blessing, (the illness in this gentleman’s family, for instance, being the cause of my getting a neat country-house cheap,) when my attention was arrested by the appearance of a thin, feeble-looking, white-bearded old man, who passed down the street with head bent and hands joined behind him.  I stared at him till he got by; then I ran down to the gate and looked after him earnestly; and at last I darted forward, hatless, in eager pursuit.  He heard my approaching steps, and put his snowy beard against his right shoulder in the act of taking a glance rearward.  I now recognized the profile positively, and began conversation.

“Is it possible?  My dear Doctor Potter, how are you?  Don’t you know me?  Your old friend Elderkin.”

“Sir?  Elderkin?  Oh!—­ah!—­yes!  How do you do, Mr. Elderkin?” he stammered, seeming very awkward, and hardly responding at all to my vigorous hand-shaking.

“I am delighted to see you again,” I continued.  “I have had no news of you these five years.  Do you live in this neighborhood?”

“I—­I reside in the next house, Sir,” he replied, not looking me in the face, but glancing around uneasily, as if he wanted to run away.

“What! are you the prophet?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

“I am, Mr. Elderkin,” he said, blushing until I thought his white hair would turn crimson.

We stared at each other in silence for ten seconds, each wishing himself or his interlocutor at the antipodes.

“I congratulate you on your gift,” I remarked, as soon as I could speak.  “I will see you again soon, and have a talk on the subject.  We have discussed similar matters before.  Good day, Doctor.”

“Good day, Mr. Elderkin,” he replied, drawing himself up with a poor pretence at self-respect.

He was greatly changed.  Heterodoxy had not been so fattening to him as Orthodoxy.  When I knew him, six years before, as pastor of a flourishing church, Doctor of Divinity, and staunch Calvinist, he had a plump and rosy face, a portly form, and vigorous carriage.  He was a great favorite with the ladies, as clergymen are apt to be, and consequently never lacked for delicate and appetizing sustenance.  He was esteemed, self-respectful, and happy; and all these things tend to good health and good looks.  I propose to make myself famous as the Gibbon of the decline and fall of this reverend gentleman, once so honorably established on the everlasting hills of Orthodoxy, and now so overthrown and trampled under foot by the Alaric of Spiritualism.  I do not expect, indeed, that anybody will take warning by my friend’s sad history; nor do I insist that people in general would find it advantageous to learn much wisdom from the experience of others; for it is very clear, that,