Meanwhile, the Ghost marshalled his brethren into something like order, and prepared to attack his enemies.

Bart, however, was a man of resources, and had come prepared for any emergency. Once more he put his hand into the litter, and this time drew forth a bone.

Yes—a common leg-bone.

The Ghost thought it might be pig, and, snorting with disgust, advanced to the attack. Ere, however, he had approached nigh enough to seize his intended victim, he was undeceived.

Bart waived the bone in the air, and every ghost felt himself at once compelled to drop on his knees. Another waive, and they sank upon their faces, grovelling to the earth-their rusty joints cricking and grinding like a cart-wheel that needs greasing.

The bone was a relic.

It was one of the fourteen thigh-bones of St. Godolphus which are preserved in various parts of Europe.

Bart, by aid of great interest, had succeeded in obtaining the loan of it from the cathedral.

St. Godolphus, in his lifetime, had burned many a Jew, and was proportionately dreaded by the race.

The victory was complete.

Not a single ghost dared to resist so powerful a spell; and, when Bart demanded their instant departure, they disappeared as one man-leaving only behind them the Ghost, whom Bart had specially excepted.

An agreement was then drawn up by which Hans, for his part, undertook to preserve inviolate the tombs in the Hebrew cemetery and restore the defiled one to its former condition. He also agreed not to persecute the Jews to any greater extent than former rulers of Bohemia had done. In return for this, the Ghost undertook to restore him to health, and to ensure him a perfect immunity from all diseases as long as he lived. This was duly signed, sealed and delivered in the presence of the noble Graf Bart von Schinkenstein; and the Ghost then stooped, and, raising a handful of dirt, flung it over Hans and incontinently cured

Wishing the friends a good-day, the Ghost then sank into the earth, having previously gathered up and replaced in his jaw the teeth so rudely ejected by Bart.

The bearers were then summoned, and the necessary repairs to the tomb accomplished and our friends departed arm-in-arm rejoicing, and wakening the echoes of the old burial-ground by the stentorian tones of their voices as they sang the favourite ballad:

Schmeisst 'n 'raus den Juden Itzig.

Hans and his wife

And so our story ends happily after all. gradually acquired a sincere liking for one another; and, with the advent of children, that liking ripened into love-so that when, on the death of King Nepomuck, Hans ascended the throne of Bohemia, no more happy couple existed in the kingdom.

Bart von Schinkenstein fell in love with the fair Rebecca, and she, the Ghost's spell having been removed, reciprocated his sentiments; and, finally, much to the disgust of Old Isaac, she was baptised and married to our old friend.

Sol Meyer grieved a little, at first, but it was at the loss of the fortune-not the lady. He afterwards married the widow of a rich pawnbroker, and succeeded to the business. In the early days of the reign of Hans' eldest son, Sol, then a very old man, was roasted to death after the approved fashion, for failing to comply with an unusually exorbitant demand.

Those readers who feel any curiosity as to the fate of the Ghost, may be glad to hear that he has never had occasion to make his reappearance on earth. His tomb remains undisturbed to this very hour; and is especially noticeable, owing to the unusually large heap of stones which has accumulated upon it during the centuries which have elapsed since he was first laid therein.

PRAYER AND PRAISE.

MASONIC ODE.

SAMUEL HAWKER BANKS.

I.

REAT Architect of the Universe! bestow

Upon the Craftsmen Thine especial care; So guide their actions while they lodge below, That they may ever work within the SquareAnd from Thine own pure teachings ne'er remove : Their Compass, truth; integrity their guard,—

In them unite the virtues good to love,

That they may surely merit Thy reward!

II.

Man's work is vain, indeed, without Thy aid
And guidance, Master, wise, and good, and great!
By whose supreme decree was planned and laid

This structure grand: who, from Thine holy seat In Heaven beholdest the works of Thine own handWhilst all Thy creatures need Thy constant care; Thou showerest forth Thy blessings o'er the landNor art unmindful of the sea and air!

III.

The Beauty of Thy Temple we admire;

And praise the Wisdom of its wondrous plan! Thy watchful care and love we still desire

For weak and helpless, erring, sinful man! Our Labour done, Refresh us with Thy grace; Remove the veil that we the Light may see! O, give us Strength Thy promise to embrace, And fit us for eternal Rest with Thee!

ING, mountain-wind, thy strong, superior song-
Thy haughty alpine anthem, over tracts

Whose passes and whose swift rock-straitened streams
Catch mighty life and voice from thee, and make

A lordly harmony in sea-chafed heights.

Sing, mountain-wind, and take thine ancient tone,
The grand, austere, imperial utterance

Which drives my soul before it back to days

In one dark hour of which, when Storm rode high
Past broken hills, and when the polar gale
Roared round the Otway with the bitter breath
That speaks for ever of the White South Land
Alone with God and Silence in the cold,
I heard the touching tale of Basil Moss,

A story shining with a woman's love!

And who that knows that love can ever doubt

How dear, divine, sublime a thing it is;

For while the tale of Basil Moss was one

Not blackened with those stark, satanic sins

Which call for superhuman sacrifice,

Still, from the records of the world's sad life,

This great, sweet, gladdening fact at length we've learned,
There's not a depth to which a man can fall,
No slough of crime in which such one can lie
Stoned with the scorn and curses of his kind,
But that some tender woman can be found
To love and shield him still.

What was the fate

Of Basil Moss who, thirty years ago,

A brave, high-minded, but impetuous youth,
Left happy homesteads in the sweetest isle

That wears the sober light of Northern suns?

What happened him, the man who crossed far, fierce
Sea-circles of the hoarse Atlantic-who,

Without a friend to help him in the world,

Commenced his battle in this fair young land,

A Levite in the Temple Beautiful

Of Art, who struggled hard, but found that here
Both Bard and Painter learn, by bitter ways,
That they are aliens in the working world,
And that all Heaven's templed clouds at morn
And sunset do not weigh one loaf of bread!

This was his tale. For years he kept himself
Erect, and looked his troubles in the face
And grappled them; and, being helped at last
By one who found she loved him, who became
The patient sharer of his lot austere,

He beat them bravely back; but, like the heads
Of Lerna's fabled hydra, they returned
From day to day in numbers multiplied;
And so it came to pass that Basil Moss

(Who was, though brave, no mental Hercules,
Who hid beneath a calmness forced, the keen
Heart-breaking sensibility—which is
The awful, wild, specific curse that clings
Forever to the Poet's twofold life)

Gave way at last; but not before the hand
Of sickness fell upon him—not before
The drooping form and sad averted eyes
Of hectic Hope, that figure far and faint,
Had given all his later thoughts a tongue-
"It is too late-too late!"

There is no need

To tell the elders of the English world

What followed this. From step to step, the man-
Now fairly gripped by fierce Intemperance-
Descended in the social scale; and though
He struggled hard at times to break away,
And take the old free, dauntless stand again,
He came to be as helpless as a child,
And Darkness settled on the face of things,
And Hope fell dead, and Will was paralyzed.

Yet sometimes, in the gloomy breaks between
Each fit of madness issuing from his sin,
He used to wander through familiar woods
With God's glad breezes blowing in his face,
And try to feel as he was wont to feel
In other years; but never could he find
Again his old enthusiastic sense

Of Beauty; never could he exorcise