veil," said Mr. Gurney in her ear. She drew
back into the shadow, and let down her veil,
feeling scarcely able to stand. Mr. Gurney
did not offer her an arm; he had something
else to do.

"Who is that man?" he inquired of the
foreman, who was showman at the moment.
The man inquired about looked scarcely
human. He was stunted in figure, large in
face, and hideous,–––making all allowance for
the puffing out of his cheeks, as he blew
vigorously at the end of the long pipe he was
twirling in his baboon-like hands.

"That poor fellow, sir? His name is
Middleton. He is a half-wit,–––indeed, very
nearly a complete idiot. He is just able to
do what you see–––blow the coarsest sort of
glass."

Mr. Gurney wished to speak with him;
and the poor creature was summoned. He
came, grinning; and he grinned yet more
when he was requested to show the
glasshouse to the gentleman. Mrs. Wharton, with
her veil down, hung on her friend's arm; and
they followed the idiot, who was remarkably
light-footed (for a wonder), to the place he
was most fond of. He took them down to
the annealing chamber; and then he observed
that it was "a nice warm place o' nights."
Being asked how he knew that, he began
pointing with his finger at Mrs. Wharton,
and peeping under her bonnet. Being advised
to look him in the face, she raised her veil;
and he sniggled and giggled, and said he had
seen her many a time when she was asleep,
and many a time when she was awake; and
another lady too, who was not there. He
hid himself down here when the other men
went away–––it was so warm! and then he
could go when he pleased, and see "her there,"
and the other, when they were asleep. Mr.
Gurney enticed him to whisper how he
managed it; and then, with an air of silly
cunning, he showed a little square trap-door
in the wall, close by the floor, through which
he said he passed. It seemed too small for
the purpose; but he crept in and out again.
On the other side, he declared, was Mrs.
Wharton's cellar. It was so. Far distant as
the glasshouse seemed from her house, it ran
back so far, the cellar running back also,
that they met. No time was lost in sending
round to the cellar; and, by a conversation
held through the trap-door, it was ascertained
that when Mrs. Wharton's stock of coals was
low, that is, in summer, and before a fresh
supply came in in mid-winter, Middleton
could get in, and did get in, almost every
night. When he did not appear, it was only
because the coals covered the trap-door.

Who shall say with what satisfaction the
ladies watched the nailing up of the
trapdoor, and with what a sense of blissful
comfort they retired to rest henceforth? Who
shall estimate the complacency of the good
clergyman at this complete solution of the
greatest mystery he had ever encountered?
Who will not honour the courage and
fortitude of the ladies, and rejoice that their
dwelling escaped the evil reputation of being
a Haunted House? Lastly, who will not say
that most of the goblin tales extant may, it
inquired into, be as easily accounted for as
that appertaining to the good Mrs. Wharton;
which has this advantage over all other ghost
stories:–––it is perfectly and literally true.

                        CHIPS.

  A VOICE FROM A "QUIET" STREET.

SIR,–––Your article in a recent number, on
the subject of street music, was very good as
far as it went. But I have this fault to find
with it, that it leaves untouched a series of
nuisances which are much more awful and
heart-rending than those which it attempts to
describe. Somebody must start up to be the
Cobden of these abuses. Somebody must
arise to put them down, or perish in the
attempt. I venture to offer myself on the
shrine of my suffering country.

Three days ago, Sir, I returned to town with
my friend and collaborateur, Jones. We are
writing a three act drama of intense and
appalling interest; and have, for certain reasons,
been spending a fortnight in Paris. On our
return to London we agreed to pick out some
quiet lodging where, undisturbed by the roaring
of cabs and omnibuses, we might continue
our work without molestation. For this
purpose, we fixed upon one of the streets running
from the Strand to the river, which by their
quiet air and secluded appearance, invite the
attention of the passer-by, and seem to
promise an eternal repose. It may not be
generally known that in some of these streets
–––I allude, of course, to Craven Street, Norfolk
Street, Cecil Street, and their parallels–––grass
actually grows. In Cecil Street we secured a
convenient two-pair front; and, moving in
there with our carpet-bags, indulged in dreams
of the success which we were about to achieve.
We drew out the career of the ruffian, killed
him at the end of the third act, made puns
for the comic characters, wept over the
suffering heroine, and determining to set to
work betimes the next morning, went to bed
early.

Well, Sir, no sooner had the breakfast
things been cleared away, and we were engaged
upon the opening scene–––a chorus of Peasants
and Peasantesses, I need hardly say–––than we
were alarmed by a frightful noise outside the
window. It was impossible to continue our
work while it lasted, so I went to the window
to see what was the matter. Will it be
believed? Three individuals were standing on
each other's heads, and from each of the arms
of the topmost, two infants of tender years
were suspended. A mob of butcher boys,
servant-maids, policemen, and other
unemployed persons, were shouting with rapturous
applause around them. The imminent peril
of our melodrama demanded that we should do