the next receipt might be made available, if a
very powerful acrobat were at your elbow—
otherwise, not: "If the uvula be falne, it will
up again if the patient suffer another to bite the
haire in the crowne of his head, and so to pull
him plumb from the ground." An ordinary
accident in eating may be thus prevented: "If a
peece of bread have gone wrong, or lie in the
way readie to stop the breath, take the crums
of the same loafe, and put them into both the
eares, you shall see it will soon be gone, and doe
no further harm." For an accident of a more
serious nature: "If any fish-bone stick in the
throat, and will not remove, it shall incontinently
goe downe if the party ready thus to be choked
withall put his feet into cold water; but if some
peece of any other bones be ready to choke one,
make no more adoe, but take some little spils
of the said bone, and lay them upon the head,
and you shall see it pass away and doe no
harm."

It is as well to get out of the way of a mad
dog; but, if you happen to be bitten by one,
do this: "Make a decoction of a badger, a
cuckoo, and a swallow, and drink it off." Are you
nervous? Never mind the benevolent clergyman
who advertises in the Times, but "take the pith
or marrow out of the Hyena's backbone along and
incorporate with old oil and hony: it is passing
good for the nerves." We have seen, over and
over again, what invaluable properties dwell in our
honourable friend, the Hyena. You may deal with
cramp, thus: "Make a cataplasme of a live wolfe,
sodden in oile till the said oile be gellied to the
height or consistence of a cerot." I should
like to see a live wolf submitting to this
process; but would decline to make up the prescription.

Suppose yourself exposed to danger from
serpents, you have only to lay unto the bitten place
"the braines of a Hen," and straightway you are
whole again. But whether the wound be mortal or
not you have your revenge, for—with the exception
of salamanders—"serpents can hurt but once,
neither kill they many together; to say nothing
how, when they have stung or bitten a man, they
die for very griefe and sorrow that they have
done such a mischiefe, as if they had some pricke
or remorse of conscience afterwards." A
serpent's conscience!

One or two recipes are of special interest to
the ladies. The first is for the complexion:
"The pasterne bones of a young white bulkin,
or steere, sodden for the space of fortie daies
and nights together, until such time as they be
resolved into the liquor; if the face be wet with
a fine linnen cloth dipped in the said decoction,
it causeth the skin to look clean and white, and
without any rivels or wrinkles; but the said
liniment must be kept all night to the face in
manner of a maske." The second recipe is for
the hair: "Ants eggs stamped and incorporat
with flies, likewise pounded together, will give
a lovely black colour to the hairs of the
eiebrows." The mysteries of a hairdresser's shop
are not easily fathomed, and that of Mr. Truefitt
may contain the following substitute for curling-
irons: "A cammels taile dried and reduced into
ashes and incorporat with oile, doth curie and
frizzle the haire of the head."

A PHYSICIAN'S GHOSTS.

IV.

As I have had what would be popularly
called A Ghost in my own family, and as that
case of what I denominate "thought-impressing"
was very strongly impressed on my own thoughts
when I was a child, by my Grandmother who
was the Ghost-Seer, I think I can give the
narrative at first hand, in the narrator's exact
words.

My grandmother was a woman of strong mind
—a good, bold, upright old lady (I mean, that
she held herself upright), who had no nerves to
speak of, and such sound health, that it was a
favourite boast of hers, when long past seventy,
that she had never kept her bed a single day,
"except, my dear, you know" (she used to
whisper), "upon eight certain occasions" (she
had had eight children), "which cannot properly
be called maladies."

My grandmother did not believe in ghosts.
"Yet, my dears," she used to say to us young
ones, "who should believe in ghosts but I?
For when I was at school (a long time ago, as
you may believe), I saw an appearance—

"When I was about eleven years old, I was
placed at a very nice lady's school in the
neighbourhood of Sloane-square. Miss Lloyd, who
kept the school, was an excellent person, and we
school-girls were all very fond of her—fond,
though a little afraid of her too, for she was a
strict disciplinarian. I was very happy at her
school, and some of my firmest friendships that
have lasted to me through life were formed
there. But there was a girl there, a Miss
Hake, who was not exactly a dear friend of
mine, but who, nevertheless, took a great deal
of notice of me, in a droll, half-joking sort of
way. She was a good deal older than myself—
she might be fourteen or fifteen—quite one of
the older girls. And she rather provoked me,
because she treated me as a child—kindly—yet
still as a child. She used to plague me, too.
She would pinch my little fat cheeks till they
were redder than nature had made them, which
was red enough—always playfully—yet still she
hurt me sometimes; and when she said, 'Now
I am going to have a cherry out of your cheek!'
I used to run away, and hide myself in some dark
corner. Still, I was rather fond of Miss Hake.
The truth was, my feelings towards her were an
odd mixture of liking and disliking, of attraction
and fear. I am pretty sure the liking predominated.
She was a tall, handsome girl, with dark
curling hair, and large dark eyes.

"Vacation-time was past and gone, and we
were all back at school except Miss Hake.
No reason was given why Miss Hake was still
absent, nor were we other girls surprised that
Miss Hake should stay at home a week or two
longer than we did. The thing had happened
before. Miss Hake was a rich, a favoured pupil,
and her holidays were apt to be rather of the