_The spirits did not recognize
Fast-Day_,--it was a remnant of the Old Mythological Religion. Demanded
further investigation, and promised greater marvels in future.
Here Miss Turligood became violently convulsed, and, having slapped the
table some forty times or more, seized a pencil and began to write:--
"DEAR PROWLEY,--Surrounded by a bank of
silver-tunicked attendants, I hover near you. The atmosphere is
redolent of costly herbs, which, with the well-known rotary
motion of the earth, impart density and spacefulness to our
spheral persons: this is the philosophy of our presence. Many
shining friends, supported upon fluted pillars, are with you
this evening. These grieve at your lack of faith, and flap
gold-bespattered wings in unison. Spherically yours,
"SIR JOSEPH BARLEY."
"Why does he sign himself _Sir_?" inquired Colonel Prowley, rather taken
aback at the sudden termination of this exquisite composition.
It was evidently an oversight, for the medium's hand erased the
offending title.
"When did Sir Joseph die?" I ventured to ask.
"That I cannot tell you," replied his late correspondent. "I have heard
nothing from him for several months. When he last wrote, he was
suffering under a severe influenza which must have terminated fatally.
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