It has always seemed strange to me,
that though mankind hate metaphysics, they are all natural
metaphysicians, especially when a little _wined_. Perhaps the true
reason may be, that as wine came from the gods, it is endued with the
power of raising us to its source. At least, our aspirations, from being
_devine_, become wonderfully _divine_, so that supernatural agencies wax
less difficult to our imaginations; and while we are ten times more
ready to meet a ghost, we are as many times more ready to admit their
possibility. But the end of these grand and elevated conditions is
generally sleep and an ugly nightmare; and though my case was an
exception as regards the latter, I awoke in not a very happy mood, just
as Graeme entered the room and told me it was twelve o'clock. As I
rubbed my eyes, he sat down in his chair, and seemed inclined to court
silence; but it was clear he could not achieve repose.
I felt no inclination to add to his apparent disturbance by any remarks
on what I had seen; but it struck me as remarkable, that, while he got
into contortions and general restlessness, putting his hand to his brow,
throwing one leg over another, closing his hands, and heaving long
sighs, he never so much as thought it worth his pains to ask my opinion
of the scene in the wood. It seemed as if he was so thoroughly convinced
of a divine manifestation against him, that he despised any exceptional
scepticism as utterly beneath his notice or attention--thoroughly
engrossed, as he appeared to be, with the terrible sanction of a portent
of some coming retribution.
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