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68 lay my head upon the pillow, I hear a sound of dogs baying—the sound seems to come up out of the pillow." A friend of Strindberg's, in delirium tremens, was haunted by mice, and a friend in the next room heard the squealing of the mice.

To that multiplicity of interest and opinion, of arts and sciences, which had driven me to conceive a unity of culture defined and evoked by unity of image, I had but added a multiplicity of images, and I was the more troubled because, the first excitement over, I had done nothing to rouse George Pollexfen from the gloom and hypochondria always thickening about him. I asked no help of books, for I believed that the truth I sought would come to me like the subject of a poem, from some moment of passionate experience, and that if I filled my exposition with other men's thought, other men's investigation, I would sink with all that multiplicity of interest and opinion. That passionate experience could never come—of that I was certain—until I had found the right image or right images. From what but the image of Apollo, fixed always in memory and passion, did his priesthood get that occasional power a classical historian has described, of lifting great stones and snapping great branches; and did not Gemma Galgani, like many others that had gone before, in 1889 cause deep wounds to appear in her body by contemplating her crucifix? In the essay that Wilde read to me one Christmas Day occurred these words—"What does not the world owe to the imitation of Christ, what to the imitation of Caesar?" and I had seen Macgregor Mathers paint little pictures combining the forms of men, animals, and birds according to a rule which provided a form for every possible mental condition, and I had heard him describing, upon what authority I do not remember, how citizens of ancient Egypt assumed, when in contemplation, the images of their gods.

But now image called up image in an endless procession, and I could not always choose among them with any confidence; and when I did choose, the image lost its intensity, or changed into some other image. I had but exchanged the Temptation of Flaubert's Bouvard et Pecuchet for that of his St Anthony, and I was lost in that region a manuscript shown me by Macgregor Mathers had warned me of; astray upon the path of the Cameleon, upon Hodos Camelionis.