Volume 146 — LAID.

He was no commonplace suburban spook Content to rap on table-tops; he cherished The memory of days when at his look Princes and peers incontinently perished; Stuck in his heart a jewelled knife dripped red; Flames had been known to issue from his head. The Moated Grange, now ruinous and drear, He roamed, constrained to bitter self-effacement, Until one midnight his enraptured ear Detected mortal accents in the basement. Downstairs he crept; beside the cheerless grate Sat four or five old men in keen debate. Softly he chuckled, "Here's a bit of luck!" And beat a warning rattle on his tabor That once had made the stoutest run amok; Then each old boy sat up and nudged his neighbour; Calm and collected round the chimney-piece They showed no sign of imminent decease. In vain he practised all his horrid lore And rolled his eyes and beckoned with distort hand; In vain his dagger dripped with gouts of gore, They only beamed and took a note in shorthand; When in despair he loosed his flaming jet One smiled and lit therefrom a cigarette. That was the end! With agonising shriek He turned and fled, the spectral perspiration Dewing his brow and coursing down his cheek; Fled, and was lost to man's investigation (For full discussion of his little tricks See Psychical Research Reports, vol. vi.).