The narrator of the following quaint story was a little man, very
soberly dressed, and very timid in his demeanour. He appeared to be
greatly in awe of his wife, of whom he spoke with due, or perhaps
I might say undue, humility and deference. If his habiliments were
sober, I am much afraid his habits were the reverse; his nose was very
rubicund, and its bright colouring contrasted oddly with his coat, once
black, but now tinged with a disreputable greenish hue.
He sat in an awkward position on the very edge of the seat, acquiesced
in everything I said, and was of such a feeble, backboneless character,
that after he had consumed half a tumbler of whiskey at a gulp, I had
no trouble in hypnotizing him (without even asking his consent) as he
lolled back on the chair in a very drowsy condition.
Slight hope was mine of eliciting anything like a story from this
intemperate little gentleman, and it was an agreeable surprise,
therefore, when he reeled off the following, which I will call “A
Visitor from Mars.”