In fact the young man, who was unusually gifted, had for the present spoilt his prospects by attacking the views prevalent at the university, including the misuse of strong drink. When I arrived in the town he kept a little aloof from me on the ground of his temperance principles, but it was he who lent me Swedenborg's Arcana Coelestia, which he had taken from his father's library. I remember that after I had begun to read the work I gave him an account of Swedenborg's theories, and suggested to him to read the prophet in order to gain light, but he interrupted me with a gesture of alarm. "No! I will not! Not now! Later!" "Are you afraid?" "Yes, for the moment." "But read it merely as a literary curiosity." "No." I thought at first he was joking, but later on it became clear to me that he was quite in earnest. So there seems to be a general awakening going on through the world, and I need not conceal my own experiences. "Tell me, old fellow, can you sleep at night?" "Not much. When I lie awake my whole past life comes in review before me; all the follies which I have committed, all my sufferings and unhappiness pass by, but especially the follies. And when the procession ends, it commences all over again." "You also?" "What do you mean by 'also'?" "That is the disease of our time. They call it 'the mills of God.'" At the word "God" he makes a grimace and answers, "Yes, it is a queer age we live in; the world turns round and round." "Or rather it is the re-entrance of the Powers." * * * * * The Christmas week is over. In consequence of the holidays my table companions are scattered over the neighbourhood of Lund. One fine morning my friend, the doctor and psychologist, comes and shows me a letter from our friend the poet, containing an invitation to his parents' house, a country property a few miles from the town. I decline to go as I dislike travelling. "But he is unhappy," says the doctor. "What is the matter with him?" "Sleeplessness; you know he has lately been keeping Christmas." I take shelter behind the excuse of having some business to do, and the question remains undecided. In the afternoon I get another letter, to say that the poet is ill and wants his friend's medical advice. "What is he suffering from now?" I ask. "He suffers from neurasthenia and believes himself persecuted----" "By demons?" "Not exactly that, but anyhow----" An access of grim humour elicited by the fact of having a brother in misfortune makes me determine to go with him. "Very well then, let us start," I say; "you see to the medicine and I will see to the exorcism." When the matter is settled, I pack my portmanteau, and as I go down the hotel steps I am unexpectedly accosted by an unknown female. "Excuse me, are you Dr. Norberg?" "No, I am not," I answer, not exactly politely, for I thought she was a disreputable person. "Could you tell me what time it is?" she continued. "No!" And I go off.