Some years ago, a philosopher ascertained
that there was nothing to be seen in the
country, save a field and a gate; and
Samson Brown, being a disciple of this
philosopher, thought that the field and the gate
might as well be seen cheaply as at heavy
cost.

The object that first struck his eye as he
roamed through the village, was a neat white-
washed cottage, of the ornamental species,
with all the shutters closed. In front of the
domicile was a neglected garden.

Strolling further on, Samson Brown
observed that there was scarcely such a thing
as an unoccupied messuage or tenement in
the place; yet there were houses infinitely
worse-situated and worse-looking than this
deserted dwelling. As a stimulus to thought
he rubbed his chin, and its touch reminded
him, that he was as yet unshaven. He had
therefore a pretext for calling on the village-
barber; and, placing himself under the care
of that distinguished artist, he put several
questions relative to the mystery that now
occupied his mind.

The barber stated all he knew about the
matter in a confidential tone, that was highly
flattering to Samson Brown. For a ten-pun'
note he would not have said as much
to the best friend he had ever known;
but he poured it all forth gratuitously into
the ear of Samson Brown, whom he had
never before seen in his life, and whose
countenance expressed nothing but unmitigated
astuteness.

According to the information of the
communicative shaver, the cottage in question was
troubled. People had been invited to live
there for nothing, and, even on these very
reasonable terms, had been unable to remain,
in consequence of the strange noises that
abounded in every room, more especially the
first-floor back. Doors opened without visible
cause, and shut with excessive audibility.
Crockery and glass had a strange knack of
rattling and jingling on the tables, and on the
stairs might be heard the rustling of that
peculiarly stiff silk, which is never worn
now-a-days, but was much in vogue among
wicked old ladies in the last century.

Armed with these formidable facts, Samson
Brown proceeded to the office of the village
house-agent, which was situated in the High
Street; and, after the shortest possible
preface, asked what was the rent of the avoided
cottage. The sum required by the agent was
ridiculously small, when tested by the appearance
of the domicile; but it was perfectly
exorbitant compared with the sum proposed,
in his turn, by Samson Brown.

The agent affected indignant surprise, but
was quailed in a moment by the piercing
glance with which Samson Brown eyed him
when he said:

"Well, small as my offer may be, it is
better than nothing, and you know very well
that, even at the rate of nothing per annum,
more than one person has refused to occupy
those suspicious premises. Don't smile! you
are perfectly aware that the cottage has
the reputation of being troubled—that's the
expression—troubled."

Here, the agent exclaimed with well-
affected warmth: "I should very much like
to know who dares to propagate such a
malicious rumour?"

"As every one in the village has sufficient
courage for that exploit—though not
sufficient to live in the house—your wish may be
easily gratified," replied Samson Brown, with
the most provoking coolness.

"Well," observed the agent, in a conciliatory
tone of voice, "I admit that there are
many foolish people hereabouts, and foolish
people indulge in foolish superstitions; but
men of sense, my dear sir,—men of the world
—like you and me——"

"Stop a moment," said Samson Brown,
"don't put you and me together. You and
I see the matter from precisely opposite
points of view. You want to get as much
as you can for the cottage, and therefore you
disbelieve the report that it is haunted; I
want to give you as little as I can, and therefore
I am a firm believer in supernatural
influences."

This logic was too much for the agent, and
in a few minutes Samson Brown had signed
an agreement by virtue of which, on his own
terms he obtained possession of the cottage,
together with sundry shabby articles of
furniture; which, probably left by the last
frightened tenant, still lingered in the deserted
rooms.

At about a quarter before midnight Samson
Brown was sitting alone in the dreaded
first-floor back of the cottage, regaling
himself with a glass of tolerably strong brandy
and water, and inhaling the fragrance of a
mild cigar. A small loaf and half a Dutch
cheese stood upon the rickety table against
which he sat; also a pewter pint-pot carefully
covered with a small plate. These articles
had been brought in by Samson Brown with
his own hand when he took possession; for
there was not a cheesemonger's assistant or
pot-boy who would have approached the door
of the troubled house. His mind was once
more absorbed in the Economist, which he
read through the fumes that gracefully curled
about his well-defined nose.

As the hour of midnight approached, the
plate began to clatter terribly on the top of
the pewter pot. Samson Brown, roused
from his studies, quietly removed the noisy
utensil, placed it on a soft piece of baize,
which rendered abortive every attempt to
clatter, and was once more deep in the
Revenue Returns. Presently the door of the
room opened with a creak, and closed with
a bang. Samson Brown rose from his seat,
turned the key, and resumed his reflections
on the proceeds of customs and excise. The
clock of the village church struck twelve