At the termination of the last stave, Captain Villiam Brown cleared his throat, and says he,—
"As our friend has commenced the services with melody, I will proceed to keep the feeble intellecks of this assemblage excited with a terrifying moral ghost tale which the Dickens himself might grow pale under. It was sent to me," says Villiam, majestically, "by a former writer for the Track Society, and reflects much credit upon the literary resources of the United States of America."
Whereupon, Villiam took some sheets of paper from his breast-pocket, my boy, and introduced
"MR. PEPPER'S GHOST.
"In the heart of a great city, whose corruption and wickedness in continually growing larger and richer, were evident to every smaller, and, consequently, more pious, town on the globe, dwelt a shamefully rich banker, named Pursimmons, who, notwithstanding his vile and enormous wealth, had refused to give it all to the virtuous poor. That it was utterly impossible for such a man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven need not be told; since we all know that honest poverty, alone, can hope for such entrance; and as poverty covers at least three-fourths of the human race, and is invariably honest, according to its own touching account, there is likely to be enough of it to fill up all the standing room in Paradise, leaving no space for even the repentant wretch of a millionaire. Hence, it naturally follows, that old Pursimmons was miserable, with all his wealth. In fact, a slim, black-dressed gentleman of much spectacles and severe countenance, who had vainly solicited him to subscribe for ten thousand extra-gilt copies of his new work on 'The Relation of Sunday Schools with the Moral Organism of Normal Creation,' to be sent to the starving heathen of the Choctaw Nation, was heard to remark, emphatically, that he would rather be 'a ignorant but religious slave in the desert of Sahara, my brethren, than that godless man with all his filthy lucre.' Therefore, old Pursimmons musthave been a continual prey to the most horrible twinges of guilty conscience that any one man, in the abundant excess of his own spiritual serenity, ever attributed to another of different views. All the year did this unhappy but fleshy old man sin against everything that is poor and pious by accepting all—ay, all!—the profits his business was iniquitous enough to produce; and even rode in a carriage; though hundreds of noble-hearted Irishmen in the honest brick and mortar business had to walk,—ay, walk!—becoming so terribly exhausted thereby as to be invariably compelled to pause for rest, on their way home, at some humble liquor establishment. When Christmas Eve came round, it found this enemy of his race meanly retiring to bed, instead of scouring the highways and byways in search of reduced private families who might at that very moment be despairingly praying to have his last cent at their disposal. A man so thoroughly bad could not fail to be a pitiable coward, and it is not at all surprising that he was somewhat startled to suddenly perceive, between himself and his scandalously-comfortable bed, Mr. Pepper's Ghost!—the very same ghost once in full blow at all our moral temples of the drama. 'Unreal Novelty!' exclaimed old Pursimmons, chewing the strings of his night-cap, 'hie thee away to thy native footlights; or, if thou must keep somebody awake all night, betake thee to some great tragedian when Shakspeare's murder lies heavy on his soul.' Mr. Pepper's Ghost winked with great archness as it replied: 'Ghosts have no terrors for the sons of Thespis, who are even merry with a ghost—of a chance to get their salaries. My mission is to you, to whom I must a wholesome lesson teach. Behold!'
"The spirit waved its hand, and lo! one whole side of the vile banker's chamber fell magically away, disclosing to view a room entirely destitute of velvet carpet and pictures by the Old Masters. On a sofa reclined a middle-aged young girl, whose poor dress of braidless merino was so inclemently low in the neck as to suggest for its down-trodden wearer a purse too scanty to procure a sufficiency of material. The daughter of penury had just reached the hundred and fifty-second exciting page of the cheap but excellent work of fiction she was reading, when a door opened and her crushed husband entered, smoking his meerschaum.
"'Old boy,' said the Ghost, 'do you remember that man?'
"'Yes,' responded the banker, sadly; 'he came to me yesterday for some money to keep him from starvation; and as he would not take 'greenbacks,' I did not help him.'
"'Listen,' said the Ghost.
"The crushed husband threw himself into a chair which was not covered with Solferino satin, and ate a peanut.