Here a prisoner states that he is Jones, of Jesus.  Vain subterfuge!  Though there be many Welshmen at Jesus College, and many of its alumni bear the name of Jones, yet are you not of their number.  So says the Proctor, a don of Jesus; and the pseudo Jones wishes that he had not been born.

Twelve o’clock now strikes, and our nightly vigil draws to a close.  Still we move forward, amid the jangling rivalry of a thousand bells.  Soon the Proctor adds yet another to the list of victims.  This one leads us a pretty dance from Carfax to Summertown, and then declares he is not a member of the University.  The Proctor smiles as a vision of Theodore Hook flashes across his mind; but, alas! the “bull-dog” recognises the prisoner as an old offender.

Unhappy man!  Your dodge does not “go down,” although beyond a doubt you will; for the Proctor will visit your double offence with summary rustication.

F.D.H.

UNEXPLAINED.

BY LETITA MCCLINTOCK.

“All ghost stories may be explained,” said Mrs. Marchmont, smiling rather scornfully, and addressing a large circle of friends and neighbours who, one Christmas evening, were seated round her hospitable hearth.

“Ah! you think so?  Pardon me, if I cannot agree with you,” said Mr. Henniker, a well-known Dublin barrister, of burly frame and jovial countenance, famed for his wit and flow of anecdote.

The ladies of the party uttered exclamations in various keys, while the men looked attentive and interested.  All that Mr. Henniker pleased to say was wont to command attention, in Dublin at least.

“So you think all ghost stories may be explained?  What would Mrs. Marchmont say to our old woman in the black bonnet, Angela?” And the barrister turned to his quiet little wife, who rarely opened her lips.  She was eager enough now.

“I wish I could quite forget that old woman, John, dear,” she said, with a shiver.

“Won’t you tell us, dear Mrs. Henniker?  Please—­please do!” cried the ladies in chorus.

“Nay; John must tell that tale,” said the wife, shrinking into herself, as it were.

No one knew how it happened that the conversation had turned upon mesmerism, spiritualism and other themes trenching upon the supernatural.  Perhaps the season, suggesting old-fashioned tales, had something to do with it; or maybe the whistling wind, mingling with the pattering of hail and rattle of cab-wheels, led the mind to brood over uncanny legends.  Anyhow, all the company spoke of ghosts:  some to mock, others to speculate; and here was the witty lawyer prepared to tell a grave tale of his own experience.

His jovial face grew stern.  Like the Ancient Mariner, he addressed himself to one in company, but all were silent and attentive.

“You say all ghost stories may be explained, Mrs. Marchmont.  So would I have said a year ago; but since we last met at your hospitable fireside, my wife and I have gone through a very astonishing experience.  We ’can a tale unfold.’  No man was better inclined to laugh at ghost stories than I.