"Yes," replied he. "My mind has been dead or entranced for a year. This is the only thing in the world I have met wi' during my sorrow capable o' putting life into my soul. It seems as if all the energies that have been lying useless for that period had risen at the magic power o' this wonderfu book, to pour their collected strength upon its pages." "Then it has served its end," said I, doubting greatly the truth of my own statement. "I sent it for the purpose of entertaining you--that is--interesting you." "Entertaining me!" he ejaculated. "You mean, binding my soul wi' iron bands: my heart now loves the misery it formerly loathed. But, sir, I am not _fed_ with this food. I devour it wi' a false and ravenous appetite; and were there a thousand volumes, I think I could read them a' before I broke bread or closed an ee." He rolled out these words with a volubility and an enthusiasm that surprised me. It was clear that I had poisoned the mind of this poor man. I had stimulated and partly fed his appetite for horrors. Familiarity with fearful objects kills the terror, and sometimes raises in its place a morbid affection--a fact established in France at the end of the last century by an empirical test of a horrific character, but which no knowledge of man's mind could have dreamed of _à priori_. Why had I forgotten this matter of history, and allowed myself to be led astray by vain theories and partial experiments? What was I now to do? The man's appetite for the bloody narratives was so strong, that, even while I was thus cogitating, his greedy eye had again sought the page. It was necessary that I should conceal from him my apprehensions, and take up his words on a feigned construction. "This kind of reading," said I, "interests you, I presume, because it fills your mind with a salutary disgust and terror--makes you loathe the act of the suicide--and mans your soul against the hateful purpose you entertained against your own life." He looked to the door, and beckoned to me to see if it was shut. I went and satisfied him that it was, while I was myself assured that she whom he was so anxious to deceive was again at her post behind it. "You ask me," he continued, "if this book has disgusted or terrified me against my purpose o' deein. Are we disgusted and terrified at what we love? I hae seen the day when thae stories had sma' attraction for me. But, alas! alas! I am a changed--a fearfully changed man. My soul now gloats owre tales o' crime and scenes o' blood. To me there is an interest, an indescribable, mysterious interest in this book, beyond the charm o' the miser's wealth, or the bridegroom's bride--ay, sir, or what I ance thocht was in life to the deein sinner. It is a medicine; but"--pausing, and eyeing me sorrowfully--"do you mean it to _kill_ or _cure_?" "To save you from self-destruction," said I--"the most fearful and the most cowardly of all the terminations of human life."