like manner by a scream. So far Mrs. Tabitha saw nothing to wonder at; nothing in fact but what was to be expected from her own very superior description of virtue. But it seemed to her that immediately on the heels of the scream she heard a faint—no! upon second thought, not very faint—reverberation of a kiss. Now this she took upon herself utterly to disclaim; fifty years’ experience of her own rigorous principles authorised her in declaring, that on no consideration whatever could she have granted such an impious indulgence to any man; much less to a Turk animated by those base intentions which she had so fully detected, and was so determined to resist. “But whose then was the kiss?” said Mrs. Tabitha; and “whose then was the scream?” said Mr. Mule at the very same moment. Here let it be explained that Mr. Mule and Mrs. Tabitha were both afraid of ghosts; and, for mutual protection, always left open the doors at both ends of a long corridor which connected their two rooms. “Was that Fanny that screamed?” cried Mr. Mule. “Was it you, Fanny, that ?” and here Mrs. Tabitha drew aside her curtain, and looked towards Fanny’s bed. But receiving no answer, and seeing every thing quiet in the moonlight, she concluded that Fanny was asleep: this obliged her to charge the kiss upon some ghost of unusual levity, and very hastily she shrank over head in the bed-clothes. Mr. Mule, upon similar considerations, retreated in a similar direction; and, for a pretty long interval, there was silence in both rooms.
V.—MORE GHOSTS.
Meantime Miss Fanny’s alarms had been soothed by the cornet. Great was her trepidation at first; but, hearing all quiet above, and being assured by her lover that he would easily devise some means for restoring her to her bed-room, she consented to take a few turns up and down the lawn. To any reasonable man, who considers that excepting at a window, or by a letter, or through Slippery Dick, these young lovers had not, in a proper sense, met or exchanged any confidential communications for weeks, it will not seem matter of complaint that “a few turns up and down the lawn” should occupy the space of one hour and a half. Even thou, most philosophic reader! must pardon them; for it was moonlight; and it was the month of May; and it was the May of their young lives; and Mr. Ferdinand was tender and devoted; and to Miss Fanny he looked like a hero; and Miss Fanny was tender and confiding; and to Mr. Ferdinand she looked like a sylph.
A sylph? Aye; but there’s the rub. Every creature that lives has its appropriate annoyance and its peculiar enemy. The Whale, for instance, has its Thresher (if we remember our Ichthyo-
