“I believe, that every one who sets about writing in earnest does his work, as a friend of mine phrased it, on something—­tea, or coffee, or tobacco.  I suppose there is a material waste that must be hourly supplied in such occupations, or that we should grow too abstracted, and the mind, as it were, pass out of the body, unless it were reminded often enough of the connection by actual sensation.  At all events, I felt the want, and I supplied it.  Tea was my companion—­at first the ordinary black tea, made in the usual way, not too strong:  but I drank a good deal, and increased its strength as I went on.  I never experienced an uncomfortable symptom from it.  I began to take a little green tea.  I found the effect pleasanter, it cleared and intensified the power of thought so, I had come to take it frequently, but not stronger than one might take it for pleasure.  I wrote a great deal out here, it was so quiet, and in this room.  I used to sit up very late, and it became a habit with me to sip my tea—­green tea—­every now and then as my work proceeded.  I had a little kettle on my table, that swung over a lamp, and made tea two or three times between eleven o’clock and two or three in the morning, my hours of going to bed.  I used to go into town every day.  I was not a monk, and, although I spent an hour or two in a library, hunting up authorities and looking out lights upon my theme, I was in no morbid state as far as I can judge.  I met my friends pretty much as usual and enjoyed their society, and, on the whole, existence had never been, I think, so pleasant before.

“I had met with a man who had some odd old books, German editions in mediaeval Latin, and I was only too happy to be permitted access to them.  This obliging person’s books were in the City, a very out-of-the-way part of it.  I had rather out-stayed my intended hour, and, on coming out, seeing no cab near, I was tempted to get into the omnibus which used to drive past this house.  It was darker than this by the time the ’bus had reached an old house, you may have remarked, with four poplars at each side of the door, and there the last passenger but myself got out.  We drove along rather faster.  It was twilight now.  I leaned back in my corner next the door ruminating pleasantly.

“The interior of the omnibus was nearly dark.  I had observed in the corner opposite to me at the other side, and at the end next the horses, two small circular reflections, as it seemed to me of a reddish light.  They were about two inches apart, and about the size of those small brass buttons that yachting men used to put upon their jackets.  I began to speculate, as listless men will, upon this trifle, as it seemed.  From what centre did that faint but deep red light come, and from what—­glass beads, buttons, toy decorations—­was it reflected?  We were lumbering along gently, having nearly a mile still to go.  I had not solved the puzzle, and it became in another minute more odd, for these two luminous points, with a sudden jerk, descended nearer and nearer the floor, keeping still their relative distance and horizontal position, and then, as suddenly, they rose to the level of the seat on which I was sitting and I saw them no more.