young people always like ghost stories,—I had been in bed some time. My father always insisted on our going soon to rest. You know the old proverb,
'Early to bed, early to rise,
Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.'—
I had been in bed some time. Perhaps I had gone to sleep a little later than usual; for it was a stormy night, and I never was a sound sleeper. My digestion is not good: I am therefore obliged to be very regular in my hours. Your dressing-case, Sir, did me a great deal of harm to-day;—we waited dinner half an hour, and the rice was overdone. However, I always make great excuses for young people. When I was a youth, I was somewhat of a coxcomb myself; indeed, I think, at any time of life, people should never be indifferent to their appearance. I often tell my sister and niece they are too careless.—But I am keeping your curiosity on the rack all this time. So, to return to my story. I had been asleep some time, when I was suddenly awakened by what appeared to me a violent blow on the chest. I started up in my bed; I could perceive no one, though the rushlight was still burning.—We were always allowed a rushlight.—I jumped up, and ran to my mother's dressing-room; I heard the clock strike twelve, as I thought, though afterwards it turned out to be only eleven. Still, as you may easily suppose, it added to my alarm; for twelve o’clock is, as you know, a disagreeable time to be thinking of ghosts—it being the hour peculiarly appropriated to their appearance. However, I communicated my alarm in perfect safety, and my bedchamber was carefully searched, without discovering the slightest cause for fear. My father was a little inclined to be angry; but, as my mother justly observed, there were many things for which there was no accounting. You see, my dear young friend,"—the Major's heart had quite warmed to his patient listener,—"I may well quote Shakspeare's profound remark, which may have escaped your notice hitherto,—
'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.'
Charles was saved the painful necessity of a reply, by a call on his attention from the other part of the room, and hearing his friend saying, "Oh, Bouverie is a capital tredille player; he used to play it with his uncle. It is the very game for a small circle in the country."
Our hero could not deny the fact—for a fact it actually was;—but how it had reached Langham was to him matter of great surprise. Down he sat to the table with Mrs. Langham and the Major, to devote the rest of the evening to spadille, manille, and basto. At ten, the tray came in, with refreshments much lighter than were ever meant to follow a dinner bad as his own had been; but, as the Major observed, "suppers were so bad for the digestion." At half-past ten, bed-candles were brought in, and "we breakfast punctually at eight" was formally announced by Mrs. Langham.
To bed he went—hungry, weary, but not the least sleepy; and he lay awake, thinking whether it would be possible to return to London the next morning. He was the last to make his appearance; for he had divers misgivings respecting a tête-à-tête with Fanshawe, who he saw at once had that worst bump developed that can adorn the head of a bore—viz., long-story-tellativeness.
