after struggling with some natural reluctance),
"Are you, in fact, Pork Pie?"

Answer: "Yes."

It were vain to attempt a description of
the mental comfort and relief which the
writer derived from this important answer.
He proceeded:

Question: "Let us understand each other.
A part of you is Pork, and a part of you is
Pie?"

Answer: "Exactly so."

Question: "What is your Pie-part made
of?"

Answer: "Lard." Then came a sorrowful
strain from the musical instrument. Then
the word "Dripping."

Question: "How am I to present you to
my mind? What are you most like?"

Answer (very quickly): "Lead."

A sense of despondency overcame the
writer at this point. When he had in some
measure conquered it, he resumed:

Question: "Your other nature is a Porky
nature. What has that nature been chiefly
sustained upon?"

Answer (in a sprightly manner): "Pork, to
be sure!"

Question: "Not so. Pork is not fed upon
Pork?"

Answer: "Isn't it, though!"

A strange internal feeling, resembling a
flight of pigeons, seized upon the writer.
He then became illuminated in a surprising
manner, and said:

"Do I understand you to hint that the
human race, incautiously attacking the
indigestible fortresses called by your name, and
not having time to storm them, owing to the
great solidity of their almost impregnable
walls, are in the habit of leaving much of
their contents in the hands of the Mediums,
who with such pig nourish the pigs of future
pies?"

Answer: "That's it!"

Question: " Then to paraphrase the words
of our immortal bard——"

Answer (interrupting):

"The same pork in its time, makes many pies,
Its least being seven pasties."

The writer's emotion was profound. But,
again desirous still further to try the Spirit,
and to ascertain whether, in the poetic
phraseology of the advanced seers of the United
States, it hailed from one of the inner and
more elevated circles, he tested its
knowledge with the following

Question: "In the wild harmony of the
musical instrument within me, of which I
am again conscious, what other substances
are there airs of, besides those you have
mentioned?"

Answer: "Cape. Gamboge. Camomile.
Treacle. Spirits of wine. Distilled Potatoes."

Question: "Nothing else?"

Answer: "Nothing worth mentioning."

Let the scorner tremble and do homage;
let the feeble sceptic blush! The writer
at his lunch had demanded of the powerful
Medium, a glass of Sherry, and likewise a
small glass of Brandy. Who can doubt that
the articles of commerce indicated by the
Spirit were supplied to him from that source
under those two names?

One other instance may suffice to prove
that experiences of the foregoing nature are
no longer to be questioned, and that it ought
to be made capital to attempt to explain
them away. It is an exquisite case of
Tipping.

The writer's Destiny had appointed him to
entertain a hopeless affection for Miss L. B.,
of Bungay, in the county of Suffolk. Miss
L. B. had not, at the period of the occurrence
of the Tipping, openly rejected the writer's
offer of his hand and heart; but it has
since seemed probable that she had been
withheld from doing so, by filial fear of her
father, Mr. B., who was favourable to the
writer's pretensions. Now, mark the
Tipping. A young man, obnoxious to all well-
constituted minds (since married to Miss
L. B.), was visiting at the house. Young B.,
was also home from school. The writer was
present. The family party were assembled
about a round table. It was the spiritual
time of twilight in the month of July.
Objects could not be discerned with any
degree of distinctness. Suddenly, Mr. B.
whose senses had been lulled to repose,
infused terror into all our breasts, by uttering
a passionate roar or ejaculation. His words
(his education was neglected in his youth)
were exactly these: "Damme, here's somebody
a shoving of a letter into my hand,
under my own mahogany!" Consternation
seized the assembled group. Mrs. B.
augmented the prevalent dismay by declaring
that somebody had been softly treading on her
toes, at intervals, for half-an-hour. Greater
consternation seized the assembled group.
Mr. B. called for lights. Now, mark the
Tipping. Young B. cried (I quote his
expressions accurately), "It's the spirits, father!
They've been at it with me this last fortnight."
Mr. B. demanded with irascibility, "What do
you mean, sir? What have they been at?"
Young B. replied, "Wanting to make a
regular Post-office of me, father. They're
always handing impalpable letters to me,
father. A letter must have come creeping
round to you by mistake. I must be a
Medium, father. O here's a go!" cried
young B. "If I an't a jolly Medium!"
The boy now became violently convulsed,
spluttering exceedingly, and jerking out his
legs and arms in a manner calculated to
cause me (and which did cause me) serious
inconvenience; for, I was supporting his
respected mother within range of his boots,
and he conducted himself like a telegraph
before the invention of the electric one. All
this time Mr. B. was looking about under
the table for the letter, while the obnoxious