his long dark face over the student's shoulder, said abruptly,--

"/Diavolo/, my friend! what on earth have you got there? Just let me
look at it, will you?"

Leonard rose respectfully, and coloured deeply as he surrendered the
tract to Riccabocca.

The wise man read the first page attentively, the second more cursorily,
and only ran his eye over the rest. He had gone through too vast a range
of problems political, not to have passed over that venerable /Pons
Asinorum/ of Socialism, on which Fouriers and Saint-Simons sit
straddling, and cry aloud that they have arrived at the last boundary
of knowledge!

"All this is as old as the hills," quoth Riccabocca, irreverently; "but
the hills stand still, and this--there it goes!" and the sage pointed to
a cloud emitted from his pipe. "Did you ever read Sir David Brewster on
Optical Delusions? No! Well, I'll lend it to you. You will find
therein a story of a lady who always saw a black cat on her hearth-rug.
The black cat existed only in her fancy, but the hallucination was
natural and reasonable,--eh, what do you think?"

"Why, sir," said Leonard, not catching the Italian's meaning, "I don't
exactly see that it was natural and reasonable."

"Foolish boy, yes! because black cats are things possible and known.
But who ever saw upon earth a community of men such as sit on the hearth-
rugs of Messrs. Owen and Fourier? If the lady's hallucination was not
reasonable, what is his who believes in such visions as these?"