Dr. P—— having accomplished his object in visiting this country, and being invited home by his family, took his leave of us in the summer of 1840, and returned to the West Indies. I have not seen him since. But he left behind a large number of disciples, and we had no lack of mesmerizers, and mesmerizers to whom he was a mere child. Some of these made mesmerism a trade, and gave public lectures and experiments as a means of gaining notoriety and filling their pockets. Others made their experiments in private circles, and from curiosity, or in the interests of science, and not unfrequently by way of amusement. Mr. Winslow devoted much time to a series of experiments intended to prove the reality of what he called the demonic element of human nature. He wished to be able to accept and explain the miracles recorded in sacred and profane history on natural principles, without the recognition of the supernatural. Jack Wheatley continued his experiments, apparently more in jest than in earnest, and was remarkably successful. He had no theory on the subject, said nothing of the use to which mesmerism might be applied, and never speculated on the cause of the mesmeric phenomena. He contented himself with producing them, and leaving others to use or explain them as they saw proper. A year had passed without my seeing Jack. In the winter of 1840-41, while on a visit to Boston, I met him one day accidentally in the street, and was startled at his altered appearance. His look was wild and oppressed, his face was pale and sallow, his youth and bloom were gone, and his body was wasted to a skeleton. He made as if he would avoid me, and with reluctance and a certain timidity replied to my greeting. “Why, Jack, what is the matter?” “Don’t you see? I see her night and day,” he replied with a shudder, as if he beheld some strange and horrible vision from which he would avert his looks, but could not. “See what?” said I. “I see nothing.” He trembled all over, and seemed unable to speak. Seeing that he had either lost his wits, or was fast losing them, I took his arm in mine, and with gentle violence led him to my lodgings, at no great distance, conducted him to my room, and induced him to repose himself on the sofa. I closed the door, and seated myself by his side. I took his hand, and caressed his forehead and temples as if he had been a child. He seemed soothed. “Tell me, Jack,” said I, in a voice almost as gentle and affectionate as that of a mother, “tell me what has happened.” “I am lost, I am damned.” “Say not that. As long as life lasts no one is lost, and nothing is irreparable.” “Life no longer lasts. I do not live. I killed her.” “No, no. But of whom do you speak?” “You did not know. I never told you. You seemed to be a cast-iron man, as Miss Martineau says of Mr. Calhoun, and disposed to put every sentiment in your crucible, and subject it to your retorts and blowpipes.” “But Mr. Calhoun has a heart, as I have had ample occasion to prove.”