When night falls upon the earth like a drop of ink upon the word Sun, and the stars glitter like the points of so many poised gold pens all ready to write the softer word Moon above the blot, the organist of St. Cow’s sits in his own room, where his fire keeps-up a kind of aspenish twilight, and executes upon his accordeon a series of wild and mutilated airs.  The moistened towel which he often wears when at home is turbaned upon his head, causing him to present a somewhat Turkish appearance; and as, when turning a particularly complicated corner in an air, it is his artistic habit to hold his tongue between his teeth, twist his head in sympathy with the elaborate fingering, and involuntarily lift one foot higher and higher from the floor as some skittish note frantically dodges to evade him, his general musical aspect at his own hearth is that of a partially Oriental gentleman, agonizingly laboring to cast from him some furious animal full of strange sounds.  Thus engaging in desperate single combat with what, for making a ferocious fight before any recognizable tune can he rescued from it, is, perhaps, the most exhausting instrument known to evening amateurs and maddened neighborhoods, Mr. Bumstead passes three athletic hours.  At the end of that time, after repeatedly tripping-up its exasperated organist over wrong keys in the last bar, the accordeon finally relinquishes the concluding note with a dismal whine of despair, and retires in complete collapse to its customary place of waiting.  Then the conquering performer changes his towel for a hat which would look better if it had not been so often worn in bed, places an antique black bottle in one pocket of his coat and a few cloves in the other; hangs an unlighted lantern before him by a cord passing about his neck, and, with his umbrella under his arm, goes softly down stairs and out of the house.

Repairing to the marble-yard and home of old MORTARITY, which are on the outskirts of Bumsteadville, he wanders through mortar-heaps, monuments brought for repair, and piles of bricks, toward a whitewashed residence of small demensions with a light at the window.

“John McLAUGHLIN, ahoy!”

In response, the master of the mansion promptly opens the door, and it is then perceptible that his basement, parlor, spare-bedroom and attic are all on one floor, and that a couple of pigs are spending the season with him.  Showing his visitor into this ingeniously condensed establishment, he induces the pigs to retire to a corner, and then dons his hat.

“Are you ready, John MCLAUGHLIN?”

“Please the pigs, I am, Mr. Bumstead,” answers MCLAUGHLIN, taking down from a hook a lantern, which, like his companion’s, he hangs from his neck by a cord.  “My spirits is equal to any number of ghosts to-night, sir, if we meet ’em.”

“Spirits!” ejaculates the Ritualistic organist, shifting his umbrella for a moment while he hurriedly draws the antique bottle from his pocket.  “You’re nervous to-night, J. MCLAUGHLIN, and need a little of the venerable James AKER’S West Indian Restorative.—­I’ll try it first to make sure that I haven’t mistaken the phial.”