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 15, 1862.] if trying to make believe I saw nothing there; but it was in vain.

For the Figure advanced noiselessly, with that air of irresistibly charming, dignified courtesy of the old school, for which, everybody said, the Doctor had been so remarkable. 1t extended its hand—a hand which a year ago I would have travelled five hundred miles to grasp. Now, I shrank from it—I loathed it.

In vain. It came nearer. It touched mine with a soft, cold, unearthly touch. I could endure no longer. I shrieked out; and my wife woke me from what was, thank Heaven, only a dream.

"Yes, it was indeed a Dreadful Ghost," said that excellent woman, when she had heard my whole story, and we had again composed ourselves as sole occupants of the railway carriage which was conveying us through the dead of night to visit that identical family whom I had been dreaming about—whom, as stated, we had never seen.

"Let us be thankful, Charles, that it was a mere fantasy of your over-excited imagination—that the dear old Doctor sleeps peacefully in his quiet grave; and that his affectionate family have never summoned him, soul or body, to sit of nights by their uncanny fire-side, as you so horribly describe. What a blessing that such things cannot be."

"Ay," replied I—"though, as Imlac says in 'Rasselas,' 'that the dead cannot return, I will not undertake to prove;' still, I think it in the highest degree improbable. Their work here is done; they are translated to a higher sphere of being; they may still see us, love us, watch over us; but they belong to us no more. Mary, when I leave you, remember I don't wish ever to he brought back again; to come rapping on tables and knocking about chairs; delivering ridiculous messages to deluded inquirers, and altogether comporting myself in a manner that proves, great fool as I may have been in the body, I must be a still greater fool out of in."

"And, Charles," said the little woman, creeping up to me with tears in her eyes, "if I must lose you—dearly as I love you—l would rather bury you under the daisies and in my heart; bury you, and never see you again till we meet in the world to come, than I would have you revisiting your old fire-side after the fashion of this Dreadful Ghost."

.—We have heard people talk of Prince Esterhazy's jewels, but we need not go so far as Austria for some first-rate specimens, English by ownership, though not of home manufacture. It is well known that the insignia of the late Marquis of Westminster were far more splendid than those of any other Knight of the Garter. The jewels that he wore at Court on "collar days" and other grand occasions were of enormous value, and two of them were made heir-looms by his will. Some idea of the value of the entire set may be formed when we state that one of the diamonds which Lord Westminster was accustomed to wear on the pommel of the sword which he used on State occasions cost him no less than 30,000l.

.—During the Seven Years' War, an alchymist offered his services to Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick, for the purpose of converting iron into gold. "By no means!" answered the Duke: "I want iron to fight the French, and as for gold, I get it from England. But if you are able to convert mice and rats into calves and oxen, you are my man. The former make great havoc in my military stores; and the latter, I stand in great need of."

.— "If the town does not surrender," said Napoleon to the governor, "within three days, je la ferai raser."—"Permit me to doubt it," was the quaint reply. "Your Majesty would certainly not like to add to your titles of Emperor of the French and King of Italy, also that of Barber of Sevilla!"

have ye been the morn sae late, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? O where have ye been the morn sae late? ⁠And I wot I hae but anither. By the water-gate, by the water-gate, ⁠O dear mither.

And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make? ⁠And I wot I hae but anither. I watered my steeds with water frae the lake, ⁠O dear mither.

Why is your coat sae fouled the day, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? Why is your coat sae fouled the day? ⁠And I wot I hae but anither. The steeds were stamping sair by the weary banks of clay, ⁠O dear mither.

And where gat ye thae sleeves of red, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And where gat ye thae sleeves of red? ⁠And I wot I hae but anither. I have slain my ae brither by the weary water-head, ⁠O dear mither.

And where will ye gang to mak your mend, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And where will ye gang to mak your mend? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. The warldis way, to the warldis end, ⁠O dear mither.

And what will ye leave your father dear, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave your father dear? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. The wood to fell and the logs to bear, For he'll never see my body mair, ⁠O dear mither.

And what will ye leave your mither dear, ⁠My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave your mither dear? ⁠And I wot I hae not anither. The wool to card and the wool to wear, For ye'll never see my body mair, ⁠O dear mither.