the street, clothed only in her
chastity, a pocket-handkerchief and a visiting card. She had been
informed, it appeared, by the spirits, that if she went out in that trim
she would be invisible. She is now in a madhouse, and, I fear,
hopelessly insane. One of the curious manifestations of her disorder is
that she can bear nothing black. There is a terrific business to be
done, even when they are obliged to put coals on her fire.

---- has a thing called a Psycho-grapher, which writes at the dictation
of spirits. It delivered itself, a few nights ago, of this
extraordinarily lucid message:

X. Y. Z!

upon which it was gravely explained by the true believers that "the
spirits were out of temper about something." Said ---- had a great party
on Sunday, when it was rumoured "a count was going to raise the dead." I
stayed till the ghostly hour, but the rumour was unfounded, for neither
count nor plebeian came up to the spiritual scratch. It is really
inexplicable to me that a man of his calibre can be run away with by
such small deer.

_A propos_ of spiritual messages comes in Georgina, and, hearing that I
am writing to you, delivers the following enigma to be conveyed to Mrs.
White:

"Wyon of the Mint lives _at_ the Mint."

Feeling my brain going after this, I only trust it with loves from all
to all.

Ever faithfully.

[Sidenote: Mr. Charles Knight.]

TAVISTOCK HOUSE, _March 17th, 1854._

MY DEAR KNIGHT,

I have read the article with much interest. It is most conscientiously
done, and presents a great mass of curious information condensed into a
surprisingly small space.

I have made a slight note or two here and there, with a soft pencil, so
that a touch of indiarubber will make all blank again.

And I earnestly entreat your attention to the point (I have been working
upon it, weeks past, in "Hard Times") which I have jocosely suggested on
the last page but one. The English are, so far as I know, the
hardest-worked people on whom the sun shines. Be content if, in their
wretched intervals of pleasure, they read for amusement and do no worse.
They are born at the oar, and they live and die at it. Good God, what
would we have of them!

Affectionately yours always.

[Sidenote: Mr. W. H. Wills.]

OFFICE OF "HOUSEHOLD WORDS,"