of finance, who, paralysed in all his limbs, but still retaining a complete command of his tongue, supported Rubezahl’s claims. “My own adventure,” said the Countess, with all the tone of settling the question, “is a clear proof that what we hear of the Spirit of the Mountain is pure fable. Were he sovereign of these parts, were he endowed with the noble qualities which folly so liberally bestows on him, he would never have allowed with impunity his name to be dishonoured by the ragamuffin who attacked us this evening. Oh! no; depend upon it, this same Spirit is a nonentity, not half so real as the fellow who called himself Rubezahl in order to frighten us, and who, but for the generous aid of Lord Giantdale, would, no doubt, have had everything his own way.”
The lord of the mansion, though he sat by, had hitherto taken no part in the philosophical discussion going on; he now blandly addressed himself to the Countess: “Your Ladyship has completely depopulated the world of spirits. Before your enlightened views, all these creations of the dreaming fancy have disappeared, as a morning mist before the rising sun. You have satisfactorily demonstrated that the notion about this ancient inhabitant of the mountains is an entire fallacy, and his champion, our friend the Finance-Counsellor, is effectually silenced. Yet it appears to me that some objections
