doubtless did some good, the wise woman in her
wisdom condemned the patient to many days and
nights of agony, while portions of the bone
came away in little white rings.  She hadn't
enough faith, so they told her, but at last the
finger healed with a huge mis-shapen stump, a
fitting finger-post of Grumbletonian superstition.

If we are to be told that such cases are
failures, and that the patients are worse off than
before, the answer is ready—it does as much
good as doctoring, while it costs nothing.
Medical men cannot tell how cases may go, even
when they have unlimited control over them.
Why exclude aid so easily attainable, which does
not prevent you from using the regular medical
or regular quack remedies?

The enchantress, however, does not always
come off with flying colours.  A case of rheumatic
fever did not receive her especial sympathy
and help, and the patient was informed that the
wise woman had bewitched her.  In order to be
set free from her "thrall," the daughter of the
sick person, watching her opportunity, one day
rushed upon the witch and contrived to scratch
her with a brass pin from the shoulder to the
wrist.  By drawing blood, the spell of witchcraft
was removed, but, for some other unknown
reason, the patient did not live long
afterwards.

When anybody's cow is sick in Grumbleton,
instead of sending to the veterinary surgeon, we
have a charm in a sealed paper from a "great
medicine" in an adjoining village.  The charm
is fastened on the part affected, and if the cow
does not recover, she is judged unworthy to live,
and is forthwith sent to the butcher.

Such is the state of the art in Grumbleton as
regards the health of man and beast, and can we
not also boast of an equal power that is exerted
on occasion in support of law and order, a power
which, fully developed, would do a great deal
towards superseding our police.  The other day
there was a robbery from one of the cottages of
a few shillings and a piece of bacon.  Recourse
was immediately had, not to the nearest policeman,
but to the wise woman aforesaid, and
with the happiest results, as will immediately
appear.

It was quickly circulated throughout the
village that the wise woman, on being informed of
the case, remarked that she "knew it afore."
She knew who was the thief.  And here, all
Grumbleton trembled; but we breathed freely
again on learning that "it was nobody belonging
to the parish."

"Would the property be recovered?" was the
next question.  "That would depend," was the
reply, "upon the thief.  If he wished the bacon
to choke him, or what he had already eaten, as
well as the money, to bring upon him a disorder,
compared to which Herod's disease was a trifle,
he would continue obstinate.  But she would
consult her oracle, and an answer would then be
returned to her, which she would repeat, if
permitted."  Two or three days were purposely
suffered to elapse, and, before they were over,
the owners of the lost property were informed
that, on a certain night, it would be restored,
and would be found lying on a stone near the
cottage.  Huge imprecations, however, were
denounced, among which blindness by lightning
was almost a trifle, so terrible were the conditions
of the curse, on all who should dare to be
present, or so much as stir out of doors on the
evening of the mysterious restitution.

All Grumbleton kept at home that night, nor
dared so much as to peep through the keyhole.
And it is a fact that the property was safely
restored, to the joy of all Grumbleton, and to the
great honour and renown of the wise woman
thereof.

But, let me do Grumbleton justice.
However bad we may be, in some respects, none
of us care about ghosts.  In this respect, we
can bear favourable comparison with any part of
England.  I have known a stout Yorkshireman
not easy in his mind at the thought of passing
through a churchyard on his way home at night,
lest, as he candidly admitted, the spirits of one
or two old fogies he never cared two straws for
when in the body, should "play him some
unchancy prank now that they had got into free
space."  I remember a Cumberland minister
not proof—good men, I suppose, have their
weak points—against horrible anecdotes,
current in the neighbourhood, of misfortunes to
those who did not make the best of their way,
even like Tarn O'Shanter, across a bridge some
half mile distant; and I know the boys who
huddled together under the hedge, and managed
some ghostly howls, which by no means
retarded his pace as he ran to cross running water.
Worthy man, he has no malice in him, for he
has had opportunities enough of repaying his
tormentors in kind, for it is long since he was
gathered to his fathers, and has reached a place,
I hope, where nobody is afraid.

Still, in obscure parts of the country, where
a railway whistle has never sounded, or the
daily press penetrated—terrible foes to ghosts,
fairies, and witchcraft, are railways and printing
—numberless, still, are the apparitions respectably
attested to, and devoutly believed in; so
numerous are they, that a solitary ghost is
scarce worth mention, where every house, barn,
and lane has its tutelary bogie, and where one
may see the long funeral procession of headless
mourners enter the church-porch, or issue from
it, on any more than usually rough winter's
night.  But pass along our village at night, and
you will find indications enough that Grumbleton,
though it may—indeed, does—believe in
ghosts, doesn't care a rap for any of them.

A story, told of our worthy old rector,
Drowse, and never contradicted by him, will
show the state of feeling on the subject.

He was out late many years ago, wind
howling through the trees, roads heavy with
mud and rain, horse tired and rider too, and
the night dark as pitch.  Although Drowse
thought he knew his way pretty well, yet, what
with the darkness, and the cross-roads, and the
overhanging woods, he missed his road, and as,