en,
suddenly calling for writing materials, began to compose with
extraordinary ardour. Severe application to his studies brought on
fainting fits, and failing health compelled him to suspend his work.
"I am writing this requiem for myself," said he abruptly; "it will
serve for my funeral service." This impression never left him. At the
expiration of the month the mysterious stranger appeared, and demanded
the requiem. "I have found it impossible," said Mozart, "to keep my
word; the work has interested me more than I had expected, besides I
have extended it beyond my first design. I shall require another month
to finish it." The stranger made no objection, but, observing that for
this additional trouble it was but just to increase the price, laid
down fifty ducats more, and promised to return at the time appointed.
Astonished at the stranger's proceeding, Mozart ordered a servant to
follow the singular person, to find out who he was. The servant,
however, lost sight of him, and returned unable to communicate the
desired information. Mozart, persuaded that the stranger was a
messenger from the other world sent to warn him that his end was fast
approaching, applied himself with fresh zeal to the requiem, and, in
spite of the exhausted state of his body and mind, completed it before
the expiration of the month. On the day named the stranger returned,
but Mozart was no more.

The ghost of a lady who died in the fifteenth century from the effects
of her husband's cruel treatment, long after her decease haunted the
castles of the allied families of Brandenburg, Baden, and Darmstadt,
and other places far distant. The ghost was generally called "the
White Lady," in consequence of it appearing in white dress and in the
veil, through the folds of which a faint light glimmered. She glided
hither and thither along the corridors and apartments of castles and
palaces. Her appearance gave certain indication that a member of the
family at whose residence she showed herself was about to expire. At
another part of the country a white lady invariably looked in at the
window of a house where a person was dying; and, at a third place, a
woman hovered in the air over the abode of one taking leave of earth.

At the commencement of the first French Revolution, Lady Pennyman and
her daughters retired to Lisle, where they hired a large house at a
small rent. During their residence in this abode, the lady received
from her husband, Sir John Pen