to me.  It was at one of our Wednesday-evening exercises.  I had just been speaking of supernatural gifts, and of the duty which we lie under of expecting and demanding them.  The moment I sat down, a stranger (a gentleman whom I had previously noticed at church) rose up with a strangely beaming look and broke out in a discourse of sounds that were wholly unintelligible.  You need not smile.  It was a true language, I am confident; it flowed forth with a moving warmth and fluency; and the gestures which accompanied it were earnest and most expressive.”

“That was fortunate,” said I; “otherwise you must have been very little edified.  But isn’t it rather odd that the man should use earthly gestures with an unearthly language?”

The Doctor shook his head reprovingly, and continued,—­

“Deacon Jones, the editor of the ‘Patriot,’ is a phonographer.  He took down the close of the stranger’s address, and next day brought it to me written out in the ordinary alphabet.  Let me read it to you.  As you are acquainted with several modern languages, perhaps you can give me a key to an interpretation.”

“I don’t profess to know the modern languages of the other world,” said I.  “However, let us hear it.”

“Isse ta sopon otatirem isais ka rabatar itos ma deok,” began the Doctor, with a gravity which almost made me think him stark mad.  “De noton irbila orgonos ban orgonos amartalannen fi dunial maran ta calderak isais deluden homox berbussen carantar.  Falla esoro anglas emoden ebuntar ta diliglas martix yehudas sathan val caraman mendelsonnen lamata yendos nix poliglor opos discobul vanitarok ken laros ma dasta finomallo in salubren to mallomas.  Isse on esto opos fi sathan.”

And so he read on through more than a page and a half of closely written manuscript, his eyes flashing brighter at each line, and his right hand gesturing as impressively as if he understood every syllable.

“Bless you, it’s nothing new,” said I.  “There’s an institution at Hartford where they cure people of talking that identical language.”

“Just what I expected you to say,” he replied, flushing up.  “I know you,—­you scientific men,—­you materialists.  When you can’t explain a phenomenon, you call it nonsense, instead of throwing yourselves with childlike faith into the arms of the supernatural.  That is the sum and finality of your so-called science.  But, come, be rational now.  Don’t you catch a single glimpse or suspicion of meaning in these remarkable words?”

“I am thankful to say that I don’t,” declared I.  “If ever I go mad, I may change my mind.”