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"I often meet him," said the ghost. "About the year 1791," said the professor, treading down all interruptions, "Nicolai began to be visited by crowds of ghosts."

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"I was one of them," said the Polish ghost. The skeleton from Guy's nodded, and bleared through a quite superfluous eye-glass, to indicate that he was another. Crowds of phantasmata," continued Pepsine, "who moved and acted before him, who addressed him, and to whom he spoke without fear; knowing that they were mere symptoms of a certain derangement of health, such as suicidal feelings, and indeed all melancholy, arises from."

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the ghost, entreating silente, and actually winking slily at the professor.

"Silence, sir! You are a mere phantom, the result of hectic symptoms, febrile and inflammatory disorders, inflammation of the brain, nervous irritability, and only fools and sceptics have any belief in you!"

at which the Pole grew angry, and the friend from Guy's laughed more than ever. "How about Nicolai's ghost? That's a settler, I think," said the Pole, stepping back to a safe distance from the table, and thrusting in the remark spitefully.

"The mere fancy of a possible event. Remember the ghost that the captain sat down upon in the arm-chair, and then followed into bed-eh? Halloa! what, not a word to fling at a dog-what, quite chapfallen! Sir, I shall put you in my next lecture."

"Don't, don't!" said both ghosts, in a whining voice: "we'll go quietly away if you promise not to."

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Miserable impostors, begone! I know all your petty tricks-the voice that called Doctor Johnson-the young ensign who died of over-smoking at Kitchemegar, and that same night went and terrified his poor sister, for no reason in the world, at 999 Gower Street. Bah!"

"But, my dear sir, a moment's patience; let me put one argument before you. Look at the haunted houses in Great "But one word." Britain, the rooms where no one can be "Not a word; I know all your re-induced to sleep; look at the clashing of lations; there is Dr. Gregory's old hag, our chains, the white shrouds, the groans, who used to strike people with her crutch." the--" "My grandmother on my father's side," said the ghost, consequentially. "Mother Shipton was my aunt."

"Sorry for it, for she was no great things. I've seen too many ghosts, sir, as some great person once said, ever to believe in them-a pack of rubbish. The man who believes in a ghost, I tell you, ought to be sent to an hospital.”

The quiet dittoing ghost suggested "Guy's," and smiled.

"I know the ghost in the tamboured waistcoat, and the skeleton that looked between the bed-curtains and frightened the doctor," said the professor.

"Dare n't look behind you, though!" said the Polish ghost, in a nagging and malicious way.

At this sneer the ghost from Guy's rubbed his knees harder than ever, and laughed till he rocked again.

"Daren't I?" said the doctor, and turned quietly round; then snapping back again, and catching the gentleman from Poland sliding forward to try and pull his coat and frighten him, he deliberately snatched up his ruler, and hit the Pole a rattling blow on his bare skull;

As the Polish skeleton here got out of breath, his lungs being evidently out of order, the professor slipped in, and continued his honest tirade.

"Stuff about your haunted housesnoises, all rats and draughts-unnatural deaths, bad sewers-rattling chains, rusty weathercocks-and all the rest, the tricks of deceiving servants, smugglers, or thieves."

Here the ghost from Poland shrugged his shoulders, and looked piteously at the ghost from Guy's; then both shrugged their shoulders noisily.

"But the wet ensign who comes and tells his sister he is drowned at Cutchemabobbery, in the Madras Presidency?"

"Ah! what about the wet ensign?" said the ghost from Guy's, backing up his friend's query in a posing and rather hurt sort of way.

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Hang the wet ensign! An idiotic sister nervous with incessant late hours, too much eau de Cologne, and the perusal of a sensation novel, has apprehensions about her brother in India, eventually goes to sleep over the piano, and dreams she sees him dripping."

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The skeleton from Guy's here clenched his fist, but the ghost from Poland groaned. 66 It's no use," said the latter.

Not a bit," said the former.

"On my word of honor, my dear sir," said the ghost from Poland, trying once more, and laying his hand on the vacuity where his heart ought to have been, "it was not a dream."

"It was not a dream, on my conscience," said Guy's.

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT.
AN ancient story Пle tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called King
John;

And he ruled England with maine and with
might,

For he did great wrong, and maintein'd
little right.

And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye;
How for his house-keeping, and high re-

nowne,

They rode poste for him to fair London

towne.

An hundred men, the king did heare say,
The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.

"Now look you here, gentlemen," said the doctor, getting red in the face, and seriously angry, "I have borne this, I think, long enough. I have proved to you both that you don't exist; why don't you go away civilly like gen'lemen?" (The doctor rather slurred the pronunciation How of this word), "You are impostors, scare-Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, crows, mere bubbles; air, vapor, thought. And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, Begone, or, I give you fair notice, if you

crown.

are not off in five minutes by that clock, II feare thou work'st treason against my will ring the bell, fire off a double-barrel gun, spring a rattle, throw open the front door, and alarm the street !"

My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were
never spend nothing but what is my owne;
knowne,
And I trust your grace will doe me no deere
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.

This threat seemed to have a great effect I on the two skeletons. Guy's sat down and warmed his shin-bones again in a desponding manner, but on Poland touching his shoulder, they both got up and began to whisper together in a violent and agitated way. They were evidently going.

*

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The doctor fell suddenly into a deep sleep. He did not awake until Betsy Jane, the housemaid, came in to "do" the room at seven A.M. That fair vestal found the gas burning, and the doctor fast asleep in his arm-chair.

In alluding to the event afterwards, Dr. Pepsine's friends always called the vision and sleep the result of "over-study; but his enemies (and what great man is not troubled with such vermin?) called it "too much of Mrs. Fitz-Jones's champagne."

WALTER THORNBURY, b. 1828.

Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye;

For except thou canst answer me questions three,

Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,

With my crowne of golde so faire on my
head,

Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe,
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am

worthe.

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O, these are hard questions for my shallow | Now horses and serving-men thou shalt witt,

Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes

space,

Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.

Now three weeks space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live;

For if thou dost not answer my questions three,

Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.

Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold,

And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold; How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home,

What newes do you bring us from good King John?

Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give:

That I have but three days more to live; For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.

The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.

The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about;

And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke.

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have,

With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;

With crozier and miter, and rochet, and cope,

Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.

Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say,

'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three,

Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.

And first, when thou seeth me here in this stead,

With my crowne of golde so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth.

For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told:
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I thinke thou art one penny worser than
hee.

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, I did not think I had been worth so little! Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world

about.

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THE Marquis of Santerre who was blind, went to hear the opera of "Enelinde," which caused a furore at Paris, in the reign of Louis XV., and being very much pleased, asked his attendant who wrote it. "Monsieur Poinsinet," was the reply. "I should like to speak to him," said the Marquis.

So, afterward, in the crush room, Monsieur Poinsinet was introduced to the blind nobleman, who embraced him with effusion and said: "My dear sir, accept my warmest thanks for the pleasure you have afforded me. Your opera is full of beauty, the music is delicious. Oh, what a misfortune that you had to set it to such trashy words!"

Now, unfortunately, it was the libretto, and not the music, of which poor Monsieur Poinsinet was the author.

Louis XIV., who, like many humble rhymesters, somewhat overrated his poetical powers, showed a copy of verses to Boileau, and asked his candid opinion of

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with her; she's caved in her stall times enough to make one carpenter rich, and livened up more'n one passenger. Remember one case in particular: Nice old gent with youngsters, goin' out for a Sunday picnic, had a basket of lunch covered up with a table-cloth. Jest as he was gettin' off, the mare worked round when I wasn't lookin', and she fetched that basket one clatter with both feet-I don't rightly know but she got in all four-anyways there was lunch for everybody within ten rods, whether he wanted or not; the paper boys mostly did. Think the old man saved the handle of a ham and the cork of one bottle. Sich a nice-looking beast as she is, too. Why, that mare has been bought not less'n three times, 'cause she was sech a gentle-lookin' lady's horse. Well, it's good for doctors and wagon-makers, anyhow. Always staves up the family and gets back into the team in less'n a week. Never was broke, she wasn't, and never will be until she falls off a house."

AT THE PIANO.

Then

IT was a young woman, with as many white flounces around her as the planet Saturn has rings. She gave the musicstool a whirl or two, and fluffed down in it like a twirl of soap-suds in a hand basin. Then she pushed up her cuffs as if she was going to fight for the champion's belt. Then she worked her wrists and hands-to limber 'em, I suppose-and spread out her fingers until they looked as though they would pretty much cover the key-board, from the growling end down to the little squeaky one. these two hands of hers made a jump at the keys as if they were a couple of tigers coming down upon a flock of black and white sheep, and the piano gave a great howl, as if its tail had been trod upon. Dead stop-so still you could hear your hair growing. Then another howl, as if the cow had two tails, and you had trodden on both of 'em at once, and then a grand clatter and scramble and string of jumps, up and down, back and forward, one hand over the other like a stampede of rats and mice more than anything I call music.-Oliver Wendell Holmes.

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