My Library

from a female, but from a Mr. Theodore Dwight, an American gentleman, hailing from Philadelphia—and at the present time still dwelling there. “This person, as all who know him will certify, is no weak, puling, nerveless man, for a man more the opposite of all this could scarce be found in a month’s search. “The sound which came from his lips was a shriek of terror, horror, and agony combined, as might well be fancied to come from the throats of the damned souls of the nether hell. It was, indeed, a paroxysm of deadly fright. In an instant all eyes were turned toward him. He was paler than a corpse, the very image of Death itself; his eyes protruded from their sockets, and he trembled as if he stood before the final bar; his lips refused to tell the cause of his distress, but his gaze was intently fixed, with an immovable expression of horror, upon the saucer on the floor. Instinctively our eyes followed the same direction, except Vatterale’s, who still was looking toward the open sash. With this exception, I repeat, we all looked toward the floor, when, great God! what a sight was there! The saucer was still there, but the two small rolls of paper were gone! They had disappeared, but in their stead we distinctly saw —for, recollect, there were seven full jets of gas in full blaze right over our heads—we saw, I reiterate, with our eyes—physical, bodily eyes—