by an awful and anxious curiosity as to the state of immortality and the life after death.  Already it was certain that “the Manes are somewhat,” and that annihilation is the dream of people sceptical through lack of imagination.  The scene around me now resolved itself into a high grey upland country, bleak and wild, like the waste pastoral places of Liddesdale.  As I stood expectant, I observed a figure coming towards me at some distance.  The figure bore in its hand a gun, and, as I am short-sighted, I at first conceived that he was the gamekeeper.  “This affair,” I tried to say to myself, “is only a dream after all; I shall wake and forget my nightmare.”

But still the man drew nearer, and I began to perceive my error.  Gamekeepers do not usually paint their faces red and green, neither do they wear scalp-locks, a tuft of eagle’s feathers, moccasins, and buffalo-hide cloaks, embroidered with representations of war and the chase.  This was the accoutrement of the stranger who now approached me, and whose copper-coloured complexion indicated that he was a member of the Red Indian, or, as the late Mr. Morgan called it the “Ganowanian” race.  The stranger’s attire was old and clouted; the barrel of his flint-lock musket was rusted, and the stock was actually overgrown with small funguses.  It was a peculiarity of this man that everything he carried was more or less broken and outworn.  The barrel of his piece was riven, his tomahawk was a mere shard of rusted steel, on many of his accoutrements the vapour of fire had passed.  He approached me with a stately bearing, and, after saluting me in the fashion of his people, gave me to know that he welcomed me to the land of spirits, and that he was deputed to carry me to the paradise of the Ojibbeways.  “But, sir,” I cried in painful confusion, “there is here some great mistake.  I am no Ojibbeway, but an Agnostic; the after-life of spirits is only (as one of our great teachers says) ’an hypothesis based on contradictory probabilities;’ and I really must decline to accompany you to a place of which the existence is uncertain, and which, if it does anywhere exist, would be uncongenial in the extreme to a person of my habits.”

To this remonstrance my Ojibbeway Virgil answered, in effect, that in the enormous passenger traffic between the earth and the next worlds mistakes must and frequently do occur.  Quisque suos patimur manes, as the Roman says, is the rule, but there are many exceptions.  Many a man finds himself in the paradise of a religion not his own, and suffers from the consequences.  This was, in brief, the explanation of my guide, who could only console me by observing that if I felt ill at ease in the Ojibbeway paradise, I might, perhaps, be more fortunate in that of some other creed.  “As for your Agnostics,” said he, “their main occupation in their own next world is to read the poetry of George Eliot and the philosophical works of Mr. J. S. Mill.”  On hearing this, I was much consoled for having missed the entrance to my proper sphere, and I prepared to follow my guide with cheerful alacrity, into the paradise of the Ojibbeways.