He had forgotten his injunction.  The moment the word was uttered he felt the silvery ground sliding from under him; and with the swiftness of thought he found himself on the flat of his back, under the very niche of the old church wall whence he had started, dizzy and confused with a measureless tumble.  The emancipated ghosts floated in all directions, emitting their shrill and stridulous cries in the gleaming expanse.  Some were again gathered by their old conductor; some scudding about at random, took the right hand path, others the left.  Into which of them Sir Theodore struck, is not recorded; but as he had heard the direction, let us hope that he made the proper choice.  Larry had not much time given him to recover from his fall, for almost in an instant he heard an angry snorting rapidly approaching, and looking up, whom should he see but the gentleman in black, with eyes gleaming more furiously than ever, and his horns (for, in his haste, he had let his hat fall) relieved in strong shadow against the moon.  Up started Larry—­away ran his pursuer after him.  The safest refuge was, of course, the church,—­thither ran our hero—­and after him—­fiercer than the shark, swifter than the hounds—­fled the black gentleman.  The church is cleared; the chancel entered; and the hot breath of his pursuer glows upon the outstretched neck of Larry.  Escape is impossible—­the extended talons of the fiend have clutched him by the hair.  “You are mine,” cried the demon,—­“if I have lost any of my flock, I have at last got you.”  “Oh, St. Patrick!” exclaimed our hero, in horror, —­“Oh, St. Patrick have mercy upon me, and save me!” “I tell you what, cousin Larry,” said Kinaley, chucking him up from behind a gravestone, where he had fallen—­“all the St. Patricks that ever were born would not have saved you from ould Tom Picton, if he caught you sleeping on your post as I’ve caught you now.  By the word of an ould soldier, he’d have had the provost-marshal upon you, and I’d not give two-pence for the loan of your life.  And then, too, I see you have drunk every drop in the bottle.  What can you say for yourself?” “Nothing at all,” said Larry, scratching his head,—­“but it was an unlucky dream, and I’m glad it’s over.”—­Literary Souvenir.

* * * * *

Ancient Roman Festivals.

NOVEMBER.

(For the Mirror.)

The Epulum Jovis was a sumptuous feast offered to Jupiter on the 13th of November.  The gods were formally invited, and attended; for the statues were brought in rich beds, furnished with soft pillows, called pulvinaria.  Thus accommodated, their godships were placed on their couches at the most honourable part of the table, and served with the rich dainties, as if they were able to eat; but the epulones, or ministers, who had the care and management of the feast, performed that function for them, and no doubt did the part of gastronomic proxies with eclat.