of air, just such air as I had been used to breathe, albeit that was not possible any longer, for the reason that it was all too heavy for the respiratory apparatus of that which now constituted my body, or at least the vehicle of myself—the thinking, acting, living me. My method of locomotion differed essentially from that of my two companions, who did not walk, but seemed to glide along at will through that same air, which was to me quite palpable, for I distinctly noticed that its touch was of a velvety character, and quite elastic. My feet moved; theirs did not. And so we passed out of the house through the open door,—for a person had just entered.
From one or two incidental circumstances that took place, not essential to this narrative, and therefore withheld, I became convinced that unless some incarnate man or woman had raised the latch of that door, it must, so far as I was concerned, have remained shut to all eternity, barring wind, decay, accident, or an earthquake; for in my then state of enlightenment on the subject, I saw no possible means whereby to effect our liberation. It struck me that unless some such agency as has been named, came to our assistance, we must either make our egress by means of the chimney, or stay pent up there until the elements dissolved a portion of the edifice; or, supposing it to be proof against decay, a dreadful alternative, so it seemed, there we must remain for evermore. Subsequently I learned that even were such a thing possible, and I never got outside of that dwelling, yet it would be far less terrible than fear might lead one to imagine or suspect; for still there would remain, not only an infinity of duration, but also a universe
