Told After Supper
by Jerome K. Jerome

Jerome K. Jerome (1859–1927) was one of the foremost humorists of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He came to fame with Three Men in a Boat—not his first publi­cation, but his first big success. For back­ground infor­mation see Three Men in a Boat elsewhere on this site; for still more, try the Jerome K. Jerome Society.

If the illustrations look familiar, it’s because Kenneth Skeaping illustrated back-to-back Jerome works: this book in 1891, followed by the reissue of On the Stage—and Off the following year. It’s hard to escape the impression that he had lots of fun doing Told After Supper.


This ebook is based on the 1891 Leadenhall Press edition. I’ve included the 14 pages of publisher’s advertising. (Watch This Space: Some of the titles sound appealing.)

Sans-Serif type and underlining are as in the original. Illustrations are shown as close as possible to their original locations. Page numbers in [brackets] represent full-page illustrations that have been moved to the nearest paragraph break. The full-page pictures on pages 87 and 89 were printed on consecutive right-hand pages; they have been separated slightly for the ebook.

Typographical errors are marked with mouse-hover popups and are listed again at the end of the book. The word “invi­sible” means that the letter or punctuation mark is missing, but there is an appropriately sized blank space. In the advertising section (only), missing or invisible punctu­ation has been silently supplied.



hand pointing to text AMONGST THE BEST OF MR. JEROME’S BOOKS

hand pointing down

One Hundred and Nineteenth Edition.

THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW: A Book for an Idle Holiday. By Jerome K. Jerome, Author of ‘On the Stage—and Off.’

London: The Leadenhall Press, E.C.

‘The Idle Thoughts by Jerome, with his special private views,

 Is a book all busy people should undoubtedly peruse.’—Punch.

hand pointing down

Fifteenth Edition.

ON THE STAGE—AND OFF. The Brief Career of a Would-be Actor. By Jerome K. Jerome.

London: The Leadenhall Press, E.C.


man in bed throwing a boot at a ghost

See Page 94





etc. etc. etc.

With 96 or 97 Illustrations by

skull smoking a pipe, surrounded by crossed bones


Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, & Co., Ltd.
New York: Scribner & Welford, 743 and 745 Broadway



head of young woman surrounded by crescent moon

The Leadenhall Press, E.C.
T. 4,471



Introductory 1
How the Stories came to be told 35
Teddy Biffles’ Story— [53]
Johnson and Emily; or, the Faithful Ghost 61
Interlude—The Doctor’s Story 77
Mr. Coombes’s Story—The Haunted Mill; or, the Ruined Home 83
Interlude 99
My Uncle’s Story—The Ghost of the Blue Chamber 107
A Personal Explanation 121
My Own Story 133

was Christmas Eve.

I begin this way, because it is the proper, orthodox, respec­table way to begin, and I have been brought up in a proper, orthodox, respec­table way, and taught to always do the proper, orthodox, respec­table thing; and the habit clings to me.

Of course, as a mere matter of infor­mation it is quite unnecessary to 2 mention the date at all. The experienced reader knows it was Christmas Eve, without my telling him. It always is Christmas Eve, in a ghost story.

Christmas Eve is the ghosts’ great gala night. On Christmas Eve they hold their annual fête. On Christmas Eve everybody in Ghostland who is anybody—or rather, speaking of ghosts, one should say, I suppose, every nobody who is any nobody—comes out to show himself or herself, to see and to be seen, to promenade about and display their winding-sheets and grave-clothes to each other, to criticise one another’s style, and sneer at one another’s complexion.


picture with text: Christmas Eve Parade


‘Christmas Eve parade,’ as I expect they themselves term it, is a function, doubtless, eagerly prepared for and looked forward to throughout Ghostland, especially by the swagger set, such as the murdered Barons, the crime-stained Countesses, and the Earls who came over with the Conqueror, and assassinated their relatives, and died raving mad.

Hollow moans and fiendish 6 grins are, one may be sure, energetically prac­tised up. Blood-curdling shrieks and marrow-freezing gestures are probably rehearsed for weeks before­hand. Rusty chains and gory daggers are over­hauled, and put into good working order; and sheets and shrouds, laid care­fully by from the previous year’s show, are taken down and shaken out, and mended, and aired.


Oh, it is a stirring night in Ghost­land, the night of December the twenty-fourth!


Ghosts never come out on Christmas night itself, you may have noticed. Christmas Eve, we suspect, has been too much for them; they are not used to excitement. For about a week after Christmas Eve, the gentlemen ghosts, no doubt, feel as if they were all head, and go about making solemn resolutions 8 to themselves that they will stop in next Christmas Eve; while the lady spectres are contradictory and snappish, and liable to burst into tears and leave the room hurriedly on being spoken to, for no perceptible cause whatever.

crowned woman in Grecian robes with sword and dripping goblet

elegantly dressed skeleton

Ghosts with no position to maintain—mere middle-class ghosts—occasionally, I believe, do a little haunting on off-nights: on All-hallows Eve, and at Midsummer; and some will even run up for a mere local event—to celebrate, for instance, 9 the anniversary of the hanging of some­body’s grandfather, or to prophesy a misfor­tune.

man trying to escape a skeleton’s clutches


He does love prophesying a misfortune, does the average British ghost. Send him out to prognosti­cate trouble to somebody, and he is happy. Let him force his way into a peaceful home, and turn the whole house upside down by fore­telling a funeral, or predicting a 10 bank­ruptcy, or hinting at a coming disgrace, or some other terrible disaster, about which nobody in their senses would want to know sooner than they could possibly help, and the prior knowledge of which can serve no useful purpose what­soever, and he feels that he is combining duty with pleasure. He would never forgive himself if anybody in his family had a trouble and he had not been there for a couple of months before­hand, doing silly tricks on the lawn, 13 or balancing himself on somebody’s bed-rail.


skeleton with candlestick looking for papers

girl holding stalk of grass with imp climbing up it

Then there are, besides, the very young, or very conscien­tious ghosts with a lost will or an undis­covered number weighing heavy on their minds, who will haunt steadily all the year round; and also the fussy ghost, who is indig­nant at having been buried in the 14 dust-bin or in the village pond, and who never gives the parish a single night’s quiet until some­body has paid for a first-class funeral for him.

But these are the exceptions. As I have said, the average orthodox ghost does his one turn a year, on Christmas Eve, and is satisfied.

Why on Christmas Eve, of all nights in the year, I never could myself understand. It is invariably one of the most dismal of nights to be out in—cold, muddy, and wet. And besides, at Christmas time, everybody has quite enough to put up with in the way of a houseful of living relations, without wanting the ghosts of any dead ones 15 mooning about the place, I am sure.

toad smoking a pipe and holding an umbrella, with snail in foreground and owl in background

There must be some­thing ghostly in the air of Christ­mas—something about the close, muggy atmo­sphere that draws up the ghosts, like the damp­ness of the summer rains brings out the frogs and snails.


And not only do the ghosts themselves always walk on Christmas Eve, but live people always sit and talk about them on Christmas Eve. Whenever 16 five or six English-speaking people meet round a fire on Christmas Eve, they start telling each other ghost stories. Nothing satisfies us on Christmas Eve but to hear each other tell authentic anecdotes about spectres. It is a genial, festive season, and we love to muse upon graves, and dead bodies, and murders, and blood.


There is a good deal of similarity about our ghostly experiences; but this 17 of course is not our fault but the fault of the ghosts, who never will try any new performances, but always will keep steadily to the old, safe business. The consequence is that, when you have been at one Christmas Eve party, and heard six people relate their adventures with spirits, you do not require to hear any more ghost stories. To listen to any further ghost 18 stories after that would be like sitting out two farcical comedies, or taking in two comic journals; the repetition would become wearisome.

There is always the young man who was, one year, spending the Christmas at a country house, and, on Christmas Eve, they put him to sleep in the west wing. Then in the middle of the night, the room door quietly opens and somebody—generally a lady in her night-dress—walks slowly in, and comes and sits on the bed. The young man thinks it must be one of the visitors, or some relative of the family, though he does not remember having previ­ously seen her, who, unable to go 19 to sleep, and feeling lonesome, all by herself, has come into his room for a chat. He has no idea it is a ghost: he is so unsuspicious. She does not speak, however; and, when he looks again, she is gone!

female ghost sitting on the side of a man’s bed

The young man relates the circumstance at the breakfast-table next morning, and asks each of the ladies 20 present if it were she who was his visitor. But they all assure him that it was not, and the host, who has grown deadly pale, begs him to say no more about the matter, which strikes the young man as a singularly strange request.

older man speaking to younger man

After breakfast the host takes the young man into a corner, and explains to him that what he saw was the ghost of a lady who had been murdered in that very bed, or who had murdered somebody else there—it does not really matter which: you can be a ghost by murdering somebody else or by being murdered yourself, whichever you prefer. The murdered ghost 21 is, perhaps, the more popular; but, on the other hand, you can frighten people better if you are the murdered one, because then you can show your wounds and do groans.

Then there is the sceptical guest—it is always ‘the guest’ who gets let in for this sort of thing, by-the-bye. A ghost never thinks much of his own family: it is ’the guest’ he likes to haunt who after listening to the host’s 22 ghost story, on Christmas Eve, laughs at it, and says that he does not believe there are such things as ghosts at all; and that he will sleep in the haunted chamber that very night, if they will let him.

Everybody urges him not to be reckless, but he persists in his foolhardiness, and goes up to the Yellow Chamber (or whatever colour the haunted room may be) with a light heart and a candle, and wishes them all good-night, and shuts the door.

Next morning he has got snow-white hair.

He does not tell anybody what he has seen: it is too awful.


shrouded ghost with knife attacking frightened man


There is also the plucky guest, who sees a ghost, and knows it is a ghost, and watches it, as it comes into the room and disappears through the wainscot, after which, as the ghost does not seem to be coming back, and there is nothing, consequently, to be gained by stopping awake, he goes to sleep.

He does not mention having seen the ghost to anybody, for fear of frightening them—some people are so nervous about ghosts,—but determines to wait for the next night, and see if the apparition appears again.

It does appear again, and, this time, he gets out of bed, dresses himself and does his hair, and follows it; and then 26 discovers a secret passage leading from the bedroom down into the beer-cellar,—a passage which, no doubt, was not unfrequently made use of in the bad old days of yore.

After him comes the young man who woke up with a strange sensation in the middle of the night, and found his rich bachelor uncle standing by his bedside. The rich uncle smiled a weird sort of smile and vanished. The young man immediately got up and looked at his watch. It had stopped at half-past four, he having forgotten to wind it.


He made inqui­ries the next day, and found that, strangely enough, his rich uncle, whose only nephew he was, had 27 married a widow with eleven children at exactly a quarter to twelve, only two days ago.

The young man does not attempt to explain the extraordinary circumstance. All he does is to vouch for the truth of his narrative.


And, to mention another case, there is the gentleman who is returning 28 home late at night, from a Freemasons’ dinner, and who, noticing a light issuing from a ruined abbey, creeps up, and looks through the keyhole. He sees the ghost of a ‘grey sister’ kissing the ghost of a brown monk, and is so inexpressibly shocked and frightened, that he faints on the spot, and is discovered there the next morning, lying in a heap against the door, still speechless, and with his faithful latch-key clasped tightly in his hand.


man looking through keyhole


All these things happen on Christmas Eve, they are all told of on Christmas Eve. For ghost stories to be told on any other evening than the evening of the twenty-fourth of December would be impossible in English society as at present regulated. Therefore, in introducing the sad but authentic ghost stories that follow hereafter, I feel that it is unnecessary to inform the student of Anglo-Saxon literature that the date on which they were told and on which the incidents took place was—Christmas Eve.

Nevertheless, I do so.


Punch and ghost on puppet stage


picture with text: How the Stories came to be Told.




IT was Christmas Eve! Christmas Eve at my Uncle John’s; Christmas Eve (There is too much ‘Christmas Eve’ about this book. I can see that myself. It is beginning to get monotonous even to me. But I don’t see how to avoid it now.) at No. 47 Laburnham Grove, Tooting! Christmas Eve in the dimly-lighted (there was a gas-strike on) 36 front parlour, where the flickering fire-light threw strange shadows on the highly coloured wall-paper, while without, in the wild street, the storm raged pitilessly, and the wind, like some unquiet spirit, flew, moaning, across the square, and passed, wailing with a troubled cry, round by the milk-shop.

We had had supper, and were sitting round, talking and smoking.

We had had a very good supper—a very good supper, indeed. Unpleasantness has occurred since, in our family, in connection with this party. Rumours have been put about in our family, concerning the matter generally, but more 37 particularly concerning my own share in it, and remarks have been passed which have not so much surprised me, because I know what our family are, but which have pained me very much. As for my Aunt Maria, I do not know when I shall care to see her again. I should have thought Aunt Maria might have known me better.

But although injustice—gross injustice, as I shall explain later on—has been done to myself, that shall not deter me from doing justice to others; even to those who have made unfeeling insinuations. I will do justice to Aunt Maria’s hot veal pasties, and toasted lobsters, followed by her own special 38 make of cheesecakes, warm (there is no sense, to my thinking, in cold cheesecakes; you lose half the flavour), and washed down by Uncle John’s own particular old ale, and acknowledge that they were most tasty. I did justice to them then; Aunt Maria herself could not but admit that.

After supper, Uncle brewed some whisky-punch. I did justice to that also; Uncle John himself said so. He said he was glad to notice that I liked it.


imp riding lobster toward punch bowl

Aunt went to bed soon after supper, leaving the local curate, old Dr. Scrubbles, Mr. Samuel Coombes, our member of the County Council, Teddy 41 Biffles, and myself to keep Uncle company. We agreed that it was too early to give in for some time yet, so Uncle brewed another bowl of punch; and I think we all did justice to that—at least I know I did. It is a passion with me, is the desire to do justice.

We sat up for a long while, and the Doctor brewed some gin-punch later on, for a change, though I could not taste much difference myself. But it was all good, and we were very happy—everybody was so kind.

Uncle John told us a very funny story in the course of the evening. Oh, it was a funny story! I forget what it was about now, but I know it amused 42 me very much at the time; I do not think I ever laughed so much in all my life. It is strange that I cannot recollect that story too, because he told it us four times. And it was entirely our own fault that he did not tell it us a fifth. After that, the Doctor sang a very clever song, in the course of which he imitated all the different animals in a farmyard. He did mix them a bit. He brayed for the bantam cock, and crowed for the pig; but we knew what he meant all right.

rooster with donkey’s head, pig with rooster’s head

I started relating a most interesting anecdote, but was somewhat surprised to observe, as I went on, that nobody was paying the slightest attention to 43 me whatever. I thought this rather rude of them at first, until it dawned upon me that I was talking to myself all the time, instead of out aloud, so that, of course, they did not know that I was telling them a tale at all, and were probably puzzled to understand 44 the meaning of my animated expression and eloquent gestures. It was a most curious mistake for any one to make. I never knew such a thing happen to me before.

Later on, our curate did tricks with cards. He asked us if we had ever seen a game called the ‘Three Card Trick.’ He said it was an artifice by means of which low, unscrupulous men, frequenters of race-meetings and such like haunts, swindled foolish young fellows out of their money. He said it was a very simple trick to do: it all depended on the quickness of the hand. It was the quickness of the hand deceived the eye.


group of men studying cards

He said he would show us the imposture so that we might be warned against it, and not be taken in by it; and he fetched Uncle’s pack of cards from the tea-caddy, and, selecting three cards from the pack, two plain cards 46 and one picture card, sat down on the hearthrug, and explained to us what he was going to do.

He said: ‘Now I shall take these three cards in my hand—so—and let you all see them. And then I shall quietly lay them down on the rug, with the backs uppermost, and ask you to pick out the picture card. And you’ll think you know which one it is.’ And he did it.

Old Mr. Coombes, who is also one of our churchwardens, said it was the middle card.

’You fancy you saw it,’ said our curate, smiling.

‘I don’t “fancy” anything at all about 47 it,’ replied Mr. Coombes. ‘I tell you it’s the middle card. I’ll bet you half a dollar it’s the middle card.’

‘There you are, that’s just what I was explaining to you,’ said our curate, turning to the rest of us; ‘that’s the way these foolish young fellows that I was speaking of are lured on to lose their money. They make sure they know the card, they fancy they saw it. They don’t grasp the idea that it is the quickness of the hand that has deceived their eye.’

He said he had known young men go off to a boat race, or a cricket match, with pounds in their pocket, and come home, early in the afternoon, 48 stone broke; having lost all their money at this demoralising game.

He said he should take Mr. Coombes’s half-crown, because it would teach Mr. Coombes a very useful lesson, and probably be the means of saving Mr. Coombes’s money in the future; and he should give the two-and-sixpence to the blanket fund.

’Don’t you worry about that,’ retorted old Mr. Coombes. ’Don’t you take the half-crown out of the blanket fund: that’s all.’

And he put his money on the middle card, and turned it up.

Sure enough, it really was the queen!


imp showing three cards with Queen of Hearts winking

We were all very much surprised, espe­cially the curate.

He said that it did some­times happen that way, though—that a man did some­times lay on the right card, by accident.

Our curate said it was, however, the most unfortunate thing a man could do for himself, if he only knew it, because, when a man tried and won, it gave him a taste for the so-called sport, and it lured him on into risking again and again; until he had to retire from the contest, a broken and ruined man.


Then he did the trick again. Mr. Coombes said it was the card next the coal-scuttle this time, and wanted to put five shillings on it.

We laughed at him, and tried to persuade him against it. He would listen to no advice, however, but insisted on plunging.

Our curate said very well then: he had warned him, and that was all that he could do. If he (Mr. Coombes) was determined to make a fool of himself, he (Mr. Coombes) must do so.

Our curate said he should take the five shillings and that would put things right again with the blanket fund.

So Mr. Coombes put two half-crowns 51 on the card next the coal-scuttle and turned it up.

Sure enough, it was the queen again!

After that, Uncle John had a florin on, and he won.

And then we all played at it; and we all won. All except the curate, that is. He had a very bad quarter of an hour. I never knew a man have such hard luck at cards. He lost every time.

decoration: two cherubs and a snail


WE had some more punch after that; and Uncle made such a funny mistake in brewing it: he left out the whisky. Oh, we did laugh at him, and we made him put in double quantity afterwards, as a forfeit.

Oh, we did have such fun that evening!

And then, somehow or other, we must have got on to ghosts; because the next recollection I have is that we were telling ghost stories to each other.


picture with text: Teddy Biffles’ Story


winged cherub playing single pipe as owl looks on


Teddy Biffles told the first story. I will let him repeat it here in his own words.


(Do not ask me how it is that I recollect his own exact words—whether I took them down in shorthand at the time, or whether he had the story 56 written out, and handed me the MS. afterwards for publication in this book, because I should not tell you if you did. It is a trade secret.)

Biffles called his story—

decoration: snail with border


picture with text: Johnson and Emily or the Faithful Ghost


picture with text: Ye Skeleton of Mister Johnson


(Teddy Biffles’ Story)


I WAS little more than a lad when I first met with Johnson. I was home for the Christmas holidays, and, it being Christmas Eve, I had been allowed to sit up very late. On opening the door of my little 62 bedroom, to go in, I found myself face to face with Johnson, who was coming out. It passed through me, and uttering a long low wail of misery, disappeared out of the staircase window.

I was startled for the moment—I was only a schoolboy at the time, and had never seen a ghost before,—and felt a little nervous about going to bed. But, on reflection, I remembered that it was only sinful people that spirits could do any harm to, and so tucked myself up, and went to sleep.

In the morning I told the Pater what I had seen.

‘Oh yes, that was old Johnson,’ he answered. ‘Don’t you be frightened of 63 that; he lives here.’ And then he told me the poor thing’s history.

head of young woman “Emily” surrounded by winged cherubs

It seemed that Johnson, when it was alive, had loved, in early life, the daughter of a former lessee of our house, a very beautiful girl, whose Christian name had been Emily. Father did not know her other name.


Johnson was too poor to marry the girl, so he kissed her good-bye, told her he would soon be back, and went off to Australia to make his fortune.

But Australia was not then what it became later on. Travellers through the bush were few and far between in those early days; and, even when one was caught, the portable property found upon the body was often of hardly sufficiently negotiable value to pay the simple funeral expenses rendered necessary. So that it took Johnson nearly twenty years to make his fortune.

The self-imposed task was accomplished at last, however, and then, having successfully eluded the police, 65 and got clear out of the Colony, he returned to England, full of hope and joy, to claim his bride.

He reached the house to find it silent and deserted. All that the neighbours could tell him was that, soon after his own departure, the family had, on one foggy night, unostentatiously disappeared, and that nobody had ever seen or heard anything of them since, although the landlord and most of the local tradesmen had made searching inquiries.

tall weeping man

Poor Johnson, frenzied with grief, sought his lost love all over the world. But he never found her, and, after years of fruitless effort, he returned 66 to end his lonely life in the very house where, in the happy bygone days, he and his beloved Emily had passed so many blissful hours.

He had lived there quite alone, wandering about the empty rooms, weeping and calling to his Emily to come back to him; and when the poor old fellow died, his ghost still kept the busi­ness on.

It was there, the Pater said, when he took the house, and the agent had 67 knocked ten pounds a year off the rent in consequence.


After that, I was continu­ally meeting Johnson about the place at all times of the night, and so, indeed, were we all. We used to walk round it and stand aside to let it pass, at first; but, when we grew more at home with it, and there seemed no necessity for so much ceremony, we used to walk straight through it. You could not say it was ever much in the way.


It was a gentle, harm­less, old ghost, too, and we all felt very sorry for it, and pitied it. The women folk, indeed, made quite a pet of it, for a while. Its faithfulness touched them so.

But as time went on, it grew to be a bit of a bore. You see it was full of sadness. There was nothing cheerful or genial about it. You felt sorry for it, but it irritated you. It would sit on the stairs and cry for hours at 69 a stretch; and, whenever we woke up in night, one was sure to hear it pottering about the passages and in and out of the different rooms, moaning and sighing, so that we could not get to sleep again very easily. And when we had a party on, it would come and sit outside the drawing-room door, and sob all the time. It did not do anybody any harm exactly, but it cast a gloom over the whole affair.

girl opening door


‘Oh, I’m getting sick of this old fool,’ said the Pater, one evening (the Dad can be very blunt, when he is put out, as you know), after Johnson had been more of a nuisance than usual, and had spoiled a good game of whist, by sitting up the chimney and groaning, till nobody knew what were trumps or what suit had been led, even. ‘We shall have to get rid of him, somehow or other. I wish I knew how to do it.’

’Well,’ said the Mater, ‘depend upon it, you’ll never see the last of him until he’s found Emily’s grave. That’s what he is after. You find Emily’s grave, and put him on to that, and he’ll 71 stop there. That’s the only thing to do. You mark my words.’

The idea seemed reasonable, but the difficulty in the way was that we none of us knew where Emily’s grave was any more than the ghost of Johnson himself did. The Governor suggested palming off some other Emily’s grave upon the poor thing, but, as luck would have it, there did not seem to have been an Emily of any sort buried anywhere for miles round. I never came across a neighbourhood so utterly destitute of dead Emilies.

I thought for a bit, and then I hazarded a suggestion myself.

‘Couldn’t we fake up something for 72 the old chap?’ I queried. ‘He seems a simple-minded old sort. He might take it in. Anyhow, we could but try.’

‘By Jove, so we will,’ exclaimed my father; and the very next morning we had the workmen in, and fixed up a little mound at the bottom of the orchard with a tombstone over it, bearing the following inscription:—







’That ought to fetch him,’ mused the Dad as he surveyed the work when finished. ‘I am sure I hope it does.’

It did!

We lured him down there that very night; and—well, there, it was one of the most pathetic things I have ever seen, the way Johnson sprang upon that tombstone and wept. Dad and old 74 Squibbins, the gardener, cried like children when they saw it.

Johnson has never troubled us any more in the house since then. It spends every night now, sobbing on the grave, and seems quite happy.

’There still?’ Oh yes. I’ll take you fellows down and show you it, next time you come to our place: 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. are its general hours, 10 to 2 on Saturdays.

decorative round frame


picture with text: Interlude


picture with text: The Doctor’s Story


IT made me cry very much, that story, young Biffles told it with so much feeling. We were all a little thoughtful after it, and I noticed even the old Doctor covertly wipe away a tear. Uncle John brewed another bowl of punch, however, and we gradually grew more resigned.


The Doctor, indeed, after a while became almost cheerful, and told us about the ghost of one of his patients.

balding man with cigar at table

I cannot give you his story. I wish I could. They all said afterwards that it was the best of the lot—the most ghastly and terrible—but I could not make any sense of it myself. It seemed so incomplete.

He began all right and then something seemed to happen, and then he was finishing it. I cannot make out what he did with the middle of the story.


It ended up, I know, however, with somebody finding something; and that put Mr. Coombes in mind of a very curious affair that took place at an old mill, once kept by his brother-in-law.

Mr. Coombes said he would tell us his story, and before anybody could stop him, he had begun.

Mr. Coombes said the story was called—

winged cherub talking to bee


fairy holding onto a grass stalk


picture with text: The Haunted Mill


(Mr. Coombes’s Story)


WELL, you all know my brother-in-law, Mr. Parkins (began Mr. Coombes, taking the long clay pipe from his mouth, and putting it behind his ear: we did not know his brother-in-law, but we said we did, so as to save time), and you know of course 84 that he once took a lease of an old mill in Surrey, and went to live there.

Now you must know that, years ago, this very mill had been occupied by a wicked old miser, who died there, leaving—so it was rumoured—all his money hidden somewhere about the place. Naturally enough, every one who had since come to live at the mill had tried to find the treasure; but none had ever succeeded, and the local wiseacres said that nobody ever would, unless the ghost of the miserly miller should, one day, take a fancy to one of the tenants, and disclose to him the secret of the hiding-place.

My brother-in-law did not attach 85 much importance to the story, regarding it as an old woman’s tale, and, unlike his predecessors, made no attempt whatever to discover the hidden gold.

’Unless business was very different then from what it is now,’ said my brother-in-law, ‘I don’t see how a miller could very well have saved anything, however much of a miser he might have been: at all events, not enough to make it worth the trouble of looking for it.’

Still, he could not altogether get rid of the idea of that treasure.

One night he went to bed. There was nothing very extraordinary about that, I admit. He often did go to bed 86 of a night. What was remarkable, however, was that exactly as the clock of the village church chimed the last stroke of twelve, my brother-in-law woke up with a start, and felt himself quite unable to go to sleep again.


picture with text: ’Tis now the very witching time of night

Joe (his Christian name was Joe) sat up in bed, and looked around.

At the foot of the bed something stood very still, wrapped in shadow.

It moved into the moonlight, and then my brother-in-law saw that it was the figure of a wizened little old man, in knee-breeches and a pig-tail.

In an instant the story of the hidden treasure and the old miser flashed across his mind.


‘He’s come to show me where it’s hid,’ thought my brother-in-law; and he resolved that he would not spend all this money on himself, but would devote a small percentage of it towards doing good to others.


man sitting up in bed looking at ghost

The apparition moved towards the door: my brother-in-law put on his trousers and followed it. The ghost went downstairs into the kitchen, glided over and stood in front of the hearth, sighed and disappeared.

Next morning, Joe had a couple of brick­layers in, and made them haul out the stove and pull down the chimney, while he stood behind with a potato-sack in which to put the gold.


They knocked down half the wall, and never found so much as a fourpenny bit. My brother-in-law did not know what to think.

The next night the old man appeared again, and again led the way into the kitchen. This time, however, instead of going to the fireplace, it stood more in the middle of the room, and sighed there.

‘Oh, I see what he means now,’ said my brother-in-law to himself; ‘it’s under the floor. Why did the old idiot go and stand up against the stove, so as to make me think it was up the chimney?’


They spent the next day in taking 93 up the kitchen floor; but the only thing they found was a three-pronged fork, and the handle of that was broken.

On the third night, the ghost reappeared, quite unabashed, and for a third time made for the kitchen. Arrived there, it looked up at the ceiling and vanished.

‘Umph! he don’t seem to have learned much sense where he’s been to,’ muttered Joe, as he trotted back to bed; ‘I should have thought he might have done that at first.’


Still, there seemed no doubt now where the treasure lay, and the first thing after breakfast they started pulling down the ceiling. They got every inch of the ceiling down, and they took up the boards of the room above.

They discovered about as much treasure as you would expect to find in an empty quart-pot.

On the fourth night, when the ghost appeared, as usual, my brother-in-law was so wild that he threw his boots at it; and the boots passed through the body, and broke a looking-glass.

On the fifth night, when Joe awoke, as he always did now at twelve, the ghost was standing in a dejected attitude, 95 looking very miserable. There was an appealing look in its large sad eyes that quite touched my brother-in-law.

’After all,’ he thought, ‘perhaps the silly chap’s doing his best. Maybe he has forgotten where he really did put it, and is trying to remember. I’ll give him another chance.’

The ghost appeared grateful and delighted at seeing Joe prepare to follow him, and led the way into the attic, pointed to the ceiling, and vanished.

’Well, he’s hit it this time, I do hope,’ said my brother-in-law; and next day they set to work to take the roof off the place.


It took them three days to get the roof thoroughly off, and all they found was a bird’s nest; after securing which they covered up the house with tarpaulins, to keep it dry.

You might have thought that would have cured the poor fellow of looking for treasure. But it didn’t.

He said there must be something in it all, or the ghost would never keep on coming as it did; and that, having gone so far, he would go on to the end, and solve the mystery, cost what it might.

Night after night, he would get out of his bed and follow that spectral old fraud about the house. Each night, the 97 old man would indicate a different place; and, on each following day, my brother-in-law would proceed to break up the mill at the point indicated, and look for the treasure. At the end of three weeks, there was not a room in the mill fit to live in. Every wall had been pulled down, every floor had been taken up, every ceiling had had a hole knocked in it. And then, as suddenly as they had begun, the ghost’s visits ceased; and my brother-in-law was left in peace, to rebuild the place at his leisure.

imp carrying sack of money


’What induced the old image to play such a silly trick upon a family man and a ratepayer?’ Ah! that’s just what I cannot tell you.

Some said that the ghost of the wicked old man had done it to punish my brother-in-law for not believing in him at first; while others held that the apparition was probably that of some deceased local plumber and glazier, who would naturally take an interest in seeing a house knocked about and spoilt. But nobody knew anything for certain.


picture with text: Interlude


WE had some more punch, and then the curate told us a story.

I could not make head or tail of the curate’s story, so I cannot retail it to you. We none of us could make head or tail of that story. It was a good story enough, so far as material went. There seemed to be an enormous amount of plot, and enough incident to have 100 made a dozen novels. I never before heard a story containing so much incident, nor one dealing with so many varied characters.

I should say that every human being our curate had ever known or met, or heard of, was brought into that story. There were simply hundreds of them. Every five seconds he would introduce into the tale a completely fresh collection of characters accompanied by a brand new set of incidents.

This was the sort of story it was:—

‘Well, then, my uncle went into the garden, and got his gun, but, of course, it wasn’t there, and Scroggins said he didn’t believe it.’


‘Didn’t believe what? Who’s Scroggins?’

‘Scroggins! Oh, why he was the other man, you know—it was his wife.’

What was his wife—what’s she got to do with it?’

‘Why, that’s what I’m telling you. It was she that found the hat. She’d come up with her cousin to London—her cousin was my sister-in-law, and the other niece had married a man named Evans, and Evans, after it was all over, had taken 102 the box round to Mr. Jacobs’, because Jacobs’ father had seen the man, when he was alive, and when he was dead, Joseph——’

‘Now look here, never you mind Evans and the box; what’s become of your uncle and the gun?’

girl holding gun as long as herself

‘The gun! What gun?’

‘Why, the gun that your uncle used to keep in the garden, and that wasn’t there. What did he do with it? Did he kill any of these people with it—these Jacobses 103 and Evanses and Scrogginses and Josephses? Because, if so, it was a good and useful work, and we should enjoy hearing about it.’

‘No—oh no—how could he?—he had been built up alive in the wall, you know, and when Edward IV spoke to the abbot about it, my sister said that in her then state of health she could not and would not, as it was endangering the child’s life. So they christened it Horatio, after her own son, who had been killed at Waterloo before he was born, and Lord Napier himself said——’

‘Look here, do you know what you are talking about?’ we asked him at this point.


man huddled in chair with tablecloth over his head

He said ‘No,’ but he knew it was every word of it true, because his aunt had seen it herself. Where­upon we covered him over with the table­cloth, and he went to sleep.

And then Uncle told us a story.

Uncle said his was a real story.


picture with text: The Ghost of the Blue Chamber / My Uncle’s Story


(My Uncle’s Story)

bearded man sitting at table pointing upward


‘I DON’T want to make you fellows nervous,’ began my uncle in a peculiarly impres­sive, not to say blood­curdling, tone of voice, ‘and if you would rather that I did not mention it, I won’t; but, as a 108 matter of fact, this very house, in which we are now sitting, is haunted.’

‘You don’t say that!’ exclaimed Mr. Coombes.

’What’s the use of your saying I don’t say it when I have just said it?’ retorted my uncle somewhat pettishly. ‘You do talk so foolishly. I tell you the house is haunted. Regularly on Christmas Eve the Blue Chamber [they called the room next to the nursery the ‘blue chamber,’ at my uncle’s, most of the toilet service being of that shade] is haunted by the ghost of a sinful man—a man who once killed a Christmas wait with a lump of coal.’

‘How did he do it?’ asked Mr. 109 Coombes, with eager anxiousness. ‘Was it difficult?’

singer with wide-open mouth

‘I do not know how he did it,’ replied my uncle; ‘he did not explain the process. The wait had taken up a position just inside the front gate, and was singing a ballad. It is presumed that, when he opened his mouth for B flat, the lump of coal was thrown by the sinful man from one of the windows, and that it went down the wait’s throat and choked him.’


’You want to be a good shot, but it is certainly worth trying,’ murmured Mr. Coombes thoughtfully.

‘But that was not his only crime, alas!’ added my uncle. ‘Prior to that he had killed a solo cornet-player.’

‘No! Is that really a fact?’ exclaimed Mr. Coombes.

‘Of course it’s a fact,’ answered my uncle testily; ‘at all events, as much a fact as you can expect to get in a case of this sort.


‘How very captious you are this evening. The circum­stantial evidence was over­whelming. The poor fellow, the cornet-player, had been in the neigh­bour­hood barely a month. Old 111 Mr. Bishop, who kept the “Jolly Sand Boys” at the time, and from whom I had the story, said he had never known a more hard-working and ener­getic solo cornet-player. He, the cornet-player, only knew two tunes, but Mr. Bishop said that the man could not have played with more vigour, or for more hours a day, if he had known forty. The two tunes he did play were “Annie Laurie” and “Home, Sweet Home”; and as regarded his 112 perfor­mance of the former melody, Mr. Bishop said that a mere child could have told what it was meant for.


‘This musician—this poor, friend­less artist used to come regularly and play in this street just opposite for two hours every evening. One evening he was seen, evidently in response to an invi­tation, going into this very house, but was never seen coming out of it!

‘Did the townsfolk try offering any reward for his recovery?’ asked Mr. Coombes.


’Not a ha’penny,’ replied my uncle.

’Another summer,’ continued my uncle, ’a German band visited here, intending—so they announced on their arrival—to stay till the autumn.

‘On the second day from their arrival, the whole company, as fine and healthy a body of men as one could wish to see, were invited to dinner by this sinful man, and, after spending the whole of the next twenty-four hours in bed, left the town a broken and dyspeptic crew; the parish doctor, who had attended them, giving it as his opinion that it was doubtful if they would, any of them, be fit to play an air again.’


‘You—you don’t know the recipe, do you?’ asked Mr. Coombes.

man struggling to cut Pork Pie with huge knife

‘Unfortunately I do not,’ replied my uncle; ‘but the chief ingredient was said to have been railway refreshment-room pork-pie.

’I forget the man’s other crimes,’ my uncle went on; ’I used to know them all at one time, but my memory is not what it was. I do not, however, believe I am doing his memory an injustice in believing that he was not entirely unconnected with the death, and subsequent burial, of a gentleman 115 who used to play the harp with his toes; and that neither was he altogether unrespon­sible for the lonely grave of an unknown stranger who had once visited the neighbourhood, an Italian peasant lad, a performer upon the barrel-organ.

‘Every Christmas Eve,’ said my uncle, cleaving with low impressive tones the strange awed silence that, like a shadow, seemed to have slowly stolen into and settled down upon the room, ‘the ghost of this sinful man haunts the Blue Chamber, in this very house. There, from midnight until cock-crow, amid wild muffled shrieks and groans and mocking laughter and 116 the ghostly sound of horrid blows, it does fierce phantom fight with the spirits of the solo cornet-player and the murdered wait, assisted at intervals by the shades of the German band; while the ghost of the strangled harpist plays mad ghostly melodies with ghostly toes on the ghost of a broken harp.’

Uncle said the Blue Chamber was comparatively useless as a sleeping-apartment on Christmas Eve.

‘Hark!’ said my uncle, raising a warning hand towards the ceiling, while we held our breath, and listened; ‘Hark! I believe they are at it now—in the Blue Chamber!


picture with text: The Blue Chamber


I ROSE up, and said that I would sleep in the Blue Chamber.

Before I tell you my own story, however—the story of what happened in the Blue Chamber—I would wish to preface it with—


young woman playing double pipes by a riverbank


picture with text: A Personal Explanation


I FEEL a good deal of hesitation about telling you this story of my own. You see it is not a story like the other stories that I have been telling you, or rather that Teddy Biffles, Mr. Coombes, and my uncle have been telling you: it is a true 122 story. It is not a story told by a person sitting round a fire on Christmas Eve, drinking whisky punch: it is a record of events that actually happened.

Indeed, it is not a ‘story’ at all, in the commonly accepted meaning of the word: it is a report. It is, I feel, almost out of place in a book of this kind. It is more suitable to a biography, or an English history.

There is another thing that makes it difficult for me to tell you this story, and that is, that it is all about myself. In telling you this story, I shall have to keep on talking about myself; and talking about ourselves is what we modern-day authors have a strong 123 objection to doing. If we literary men of the new school have one praise-worthy yearning more ever present to our minds than another it is the yearning never to appear in the slightest degree egotistical.

I myself, so I am told, carry this coyness—this shrinking reticence concerning anything connected with my own personality, almost too far; and people grumble at me because of it. People come to me and say—

‘Well, now, why don’t you talk about yourself a bit? That’s what we want to read about. Tell us something about yourself.’

But I have always replied, ‘No.’ It 124 is not that I do not think the subject an interesting one. I cannot myself conceive of any topic more likely to prove fascinating to the world as a whole, or at all events to the cultured portion of it. But I will not do it, on principle. It is inartistic, and it sets a bad example to the younger men. Other writers (a few of them) do it, I know; but I will not—not as a rule.

Under ordinary circumstances, therefore, I should not tell you this story at all. I should say to myself, ‘No! It is a good story, it is a moral story, it is a strange, weird, enthralling sort of a story; and the public, I know, would like to hear it; and I should like to 125 tell it to them; but it is all about myself—about what I said, and what I saw, and what I did, and I cannot do it. My retiring, anti-egotistical nature will not permit me to talk in this way about myself.’

But the circumstances surrounding this story are not ordinary, and there are reasons prompting me, in spite of my modesty, to rather welcome the opportunity of relating it.

As I stated at the beginning, there has been unpleasantness in our family over this party of ours, and, as regards myself in particular, and my share in the events I am now about to set forth, gross injustice has been done me.


allegorical picture of Innocence battling Calumny

As a means of replacing my character in its proper light—of dispelling the clouds of calumny and misconception with which it has been darkened, I feel that my best course is to give a simple, dignified narration of the plain facts, and allow the unprejudiced to judge for themselves. My chief object, I candidly confess, is to clear myself from unjust aspersion. Spurred by this 127 motive—and I think it is an honourable and a right motive—I find I am enabled to overcome my usual repugnance to talking about myself, and can thus tell—

decoration: winged cherub holding strip of music


young woman in Grecian robe playing a lyre


picture with text: My Own Story


picture with text: My Own Story.


decoration: three crowned heads



AS soon as my uncle had finished his story, I, as I have already told you, rose up and said that I would sleep in the Blue Cham­ber that very night.

‘Never!’ cried my uncle, springing up. ‘You shall not put yourself in this 134 deadly peril. Besides, the bed is not made.’

’Never mind the bed,’ I replied. ’I have lived in furnished apartments for gentlemen, and have been accustomed to sleep on beds that have never been made from one year’s end to the other. Do not thwart me in my resolve. I am young, and have had a clear conscience now for over a month. The spirits will not harm me. I may even do them some little good, and induce them to be quiet and go away. Besides, I should like to see the show.’

Saying which, I sat down again. (How Mr. Coombes came to be in my chair, instead of at the other side of 135 the room, where he had been all the evening; and why he never offered to apologise when I sat right down on top of him; and why young Biffles should have tried to palm himself off upon me as my Uncle John, and induced me, under that erroneous impres­sion, to shake him by the hand for nearly three minutes, and tell him that I had always regarded him as father,—are matters that, to this day, I have never been able to fully under­stand.)


They tried to dissuade me from what they termed my foolhardy enterprise, but I remained firm, and claimed my privilege. I was ’the guest.’ ’The guest’ always sleeps in the haunted 136 chamber on Christmas Eve; it is his perquisite.

They said that if I put it on that footing, they had, of course, no answer; and they lighted a candle for me, and accompanied me upstairs in a body.

Whether elevated by the feeling that I was doing a noble action, or animated by a mere general consciousness of rectitude, is not for me to say, but I went upstairs that night with remarkable buoyancy. It was as much as I could do to stop at the landing when I came to it; I felt I wanted to go on up to the roof. But, with the help of the banisters, I restrained my ambition, 139 wished them all good-night, and went in and shut the door.


Things began to go wrong with me from the very first. The candle tumbled out of the candle­stick before my hand was off the lock. It kept on tumbling out of the candle­stick, and every time I picked it up and put it in, it tumbled out again: I never saw such a slippery candle. I gave up attempting to use the candlestick at last, and carried the candle about in my hand; and, even then, it would not keep upright. So I got 140 wild and threw it out of window, and undressed and went to bed in the dark.

I did not go to sleep,—I did not feel sleepy at all,—I lay on my back, looking up at the ceiling, and thinking of things. I wish I could remember some of the ideas that came to me as I lay there, because they were so amusing. I laughed at them myself till the bed shook.

I had been lying like this for half an hour or so, and had forgotten all about the ghost, when, on casually casting my eyes round the room, I noticed for the first time a singularly contented-looking phantom, sitting in 141 the easy-chair by the fire, smoking the ghost of a long clay pipe.

I fancied for the moment, as most people would under similar circumstances, that I must be dreaming. I sat up, and rubbed my eyes.

No! It was a ghost, clear enough. I could see the back of the chair through his body. He looked over towards me, took the shadowy pipe from his lips, and nodded.

The most surprising part of the whole thing to me was that I did not feel in the least alarmed. If anything, I was rather pleased to see him. It was company.

I said, ‘Good evening. It’s been a cold day!’


He said he had not noticed it himself, but dared say I was right.

We remained silent for a few seconds, and then, wishing to put it pleasantly, I said, ‘I believe I have the honour of addressing the ghost of the gentleman who had the accident with the wait?’

He smiled, and said it was very good of me to remember it. One wait was not much to boast of, but still, every little helped.

I was somewhat staggered at his answer. I had expected a groan of remorse. The ghost appeared, on the contrary, to be rather conceited over the business. I thought that, as he 143 had taken my reference to the wait so quietly, perhaps he would not be offended if I questioned him about the organ-grinder. I felt curious about that poor boy.


‘Is it true,’ I asked, ‘that you had a hand in the death of that Italian peasant lad who came to the town once with a barrel-organ that played nothing but Scotch airs?’

He quite fired up. ’Had a hand in 144 it!’ he exclaimed indignantly. ‘Who has dared to pretend that he assisted me? I murdered the youth myself. Nobody helped me. Alone I did it. Show me the man who says I didn’t.’

I calmed him. I assured him that I had never, in my own mind, doubted that he was the real and only assassin, and I went on and asked him what he had done with the body of the cornet-player he had killed.

He said, ‘To which one may you be alluding?’

‘Oh, were there any more then?’ I inquired.

He smiled, and gave a little cough. He said he did not like to appear to be 145 boasting, but that, counting trombones, there were seven.

‘Dear me!’ I replied, ‘you must have had quite a busy time of it, one way and another.’


He said that perhaps he ought not to be the one to say so, but that really, speaking of ordinary middle-class society, he thought there were few ghosts who could look back upon a life of more sustained useful­ness.

He puffed away in silence for a few seconds, while I sat watching him. I had never seen a ghost smoking a pipe 146 before, that I could remember, and it interested me.

I asked him what tobacco he used, and he replied, ‘The ghost of cut cavendish, as a rule.’

He explained that the ghost of all the tobacco that a man smoked in life belonged to him when he became dead. He said he himself had smoked a good deal of cut cavendish when he was alive, so that he was well supplied with the ghost of it now.

I observed that it was a useful thing to know that, and I made up my mind to smoke as much tobacco as ever I could before I died.


man in bed, ghost in chair, both smoking

I thought I might as well start at once, 149 so I said I would join him in a pipe, and he said, ‘Do, old man’; and I reached over and got out the necessary paraphernalia from my coat pocket and lit up.

We grew quite chummy after that, and he told me all his crimes. He said he had lived next door once to a young lady who was learning to play the guitar, while a gentleman who practised on the bass-viol lived opposite. And he, with fiendish cunning, had introduced these two unsuspecting young people to one another, and had persuaded them to elope with each other against their parents’ wishes, and take their musical instruments with them; and they had done so, and, before the honeymoon was 150 over, she had broken his head with the bass-viol, and he had tried to cram the guitar down her throat, and had injured her for life.

man introducing young woman with guitar to young man with bass viol

My friend said he used to lure muffin-men 151 into the passage and then stuff them with their own wares till they burst and died. He said he had quieted eighteen that way.

young woman on a pediment, playing the guitar

Young men and women who recited long and dreary poems at evening parties, and callow youths who walked about the streets late at night, playing concertinas, he used to get together and poison in batches of ten, so as to save expense; and park orators and temperance lecturers he used to shut 152 up six in a small room with a glass of water and a collection-box apiece, and let them talk each other to death!


It did one good to listen to him.

I asked him when he expected the other ghosts—the ghosts of the wait and the cornet-player, and the German band that Uncle John had mentioned. He smiled, and said they would never come again, any of them.


picture with text: The Last of the German Band

I said, ‘Why; isn’t it true, 155 then, that they meet you here every Christmas Eve for a row?’


He replied that it was true. Every Christmas Eve, for twenty-five years, had he and they fought in that room; but they would never trouble him nor anybody else again. One by one, had he laid them out, spoilt, and utterly useless for all haunting purposes. He had finished off the last German-band ghost that very evening, just before I came upstairs, and had thrown what was left of it out through the slit between the 156 window-sashes. He said it would never be worth calling a ghost again.

‘I suppose you will still come yourself, as usual?’ I said. ‘They would be sorry to miss you, I know.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he replied; ‘there’s nothing much to come for now. Unless,’ he added kindly, ‘you are going to be here. I’ll come if you will sleep here next Christmas Eve.’

‘I have taken a liking to you,’ he continued; ‘you don’t fly off, screeching, when you see a party, and your hair doesn’t stand on end. You’ve no idea,’ he said, ‘how sick I am of seeing people’s hair standing on end.’


He said it irritated him.

Just then a slight noise reached us from the yard below, and he started and turned deathly black.

‘You are ill,’ I cried, springing towards him; ‘tell me the best thing to do you. Shall I drink some brandy, and give you the ghost of it?’

He remained silent, listening intently for a moment, and then he gave a sigh 158 of relief, and the shade came back to his cheek.

‘It’s all right,’ he murmured; ‘I was afraid it was the cock.’

‘Oh, it’s too early for that,’ I said. ‘Why, it’s only the middle of the night.’

‘Oh, that doesn’t make any difference to those cursed chickens,’ he replied bitterly. ‘They would just as soon crow in the middle of the night as at any other time—sooner, if they thought it would spoil a chap’s evening out. I believe they do it on purpose.’

skeleton retreating into cave at dawn as rooster looks on

He said a friend of his, the ghost of a man who had killed a water-rate collector, used to haunt a house in Long Acre, where they kept fowls in the 159 cellar, and every time a policeman went by and flashed his bull’s-eye down the grating, the old cock there would fancy it was the sun, and start crowing like mad; when, of course, the poor ghost had to dissolve, and it would, in consequence, get back home sometimes as early as one o’clock in the morning, swearing fearfully because it had only been out for an hour.

I agreed that it seemed very unfair.


‘Oh, it’s an absurd arrangement altogether,’ he continued, quite angrily. ‘I can’t imagine what our old man could have been thinking of when he made it. As I have said to him, over and over again, “Have a fixed time, and let everybody stick to it—say four o’clock in summer, and six in winter. Then one would know what one was about.”’

‘How do you manage when there isn’t any cock handy?’ I inquired.

He was on the point of replying, when again he started and listened. This time I distinctly heard Mr. Bowles’s cock, next door, crow twice.

‘There you are,’ he said, rising and reaching for his hat; ‘that’s the sort 161 of thing we have to put up with. What is the time?’

I looked at my watch, and found it was half-past three.

’I thought as much,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll wring that blessed bird’s neck if I get hold of it.’ And he prepared to go.

‘If you can wait half a minute,’ I said, getting out of bed, ‘I’ll go a bit of the way with you.’

‘It’s very good of you,’ he rejoined, pausing, ‘but it seems unkind to drag you out.’

‘Not at all,’ I replied; ‘I shall like a walk.’ And I partially dressed myself, and took my umbrella; and he put 162 his arm through mine, and we went out together.

Just by the gate we met Jones, one of the local constables.

’Good-night, Jones,’ I said (I always feel affable at Christmas-time).

’Good-night, sir,’ answered the man a little gruffly, I thought. ‘May I ask what you’re a-doing of?’

‘Oh, it’s all right,’ I responded, with a wave of my umbrella; ‘I’m just seeing my friend part of the way home.’

He said, ‘What friend?’

‘Oh, ah, of course,’ I laughed; ‘I forgot. He’s invisible to you. He is the ghost of the gentleman that killed the 165 wait. I’m just going to the corner with him.’


policeman grabbing young man by the wrist while ghost stands by

‘Ah, I don’t think I would, if I was you, sir,’ said Jones severely. ‘If you take my advice, you’ll say good-bye to your friend here, and go back indoors. Perhaps you are not aware that you are walking about with nothing on but a night-shirt and a pair of boots and an opera-hat. Where’s your trousers?’

I did not like the man’s manner at all. I said, ‘Jones! I don’t wish to have to report you, but it seems to me you’ve been drinking. My trousers are where a man’s trousers ought to be—on his legs. I distinctly remember putting them on.’


’Well, you haven’t got them on now,’ he retorted.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I replied. ‘I tell you I have; I think I ought to know.’

’I think so, too,’ he answered, ‘but you evidently don’t. Now you come along indoors with me, and don’t let’s have any more of it.’

Uncle John came to the door at this point, having been awaked, I suppose, by the altercation; and, at the same moment, Aunt Maria appeared at the window in her nightcap.

I explained the constable’s mistake to them, treating the matter as lightly as I could, so as not to get the man 167 into trouble, and I turned for confirmation to the ghost.

He was gone! He had left me without a word—without even saying good-bye!

It struck me as so unkind, his having gone off in that way, that I burst into tears; and Uncle John came out, and led me back into the house.

On reaching my room, I discovered that Jones was right. I had not put on my trousers, after all. They were still hanging over the bed-rail. I suppose, in my anxiety not to keep the ghost waiting, I must have forgotten them.


decoration: winged cherub and dolphin

Such are the plain facts of the case, out of which it must, doubtless, to the healthy, charitable mind appear impossible that calumny could spring.

But it has.

Persons—I say ‘persons’—have professed themselves unable to understand the simple circumstances herein narrated, except in the light of explanations at once misleading and insulting. Slurs have been cast and aspersions made 169
on me by those of my own flesh and blood.

But I bear no ill-feeling. I merely, as I have said, set forth this statement for the purpose of clearing my character from injurious suspicion.

picture with text: The End

Notes and Corrections: Told After Supper

With 96 or 97 Illustrations
[They couldn’t ask the printer for a definitive count of the plates? I make it 96 including drop capitals (no two alike).]

[p. 79] Mr. Coombes said the story was called
. in “Mr.” invisible

[p. 100] ‘Well, then, my uncle went into the garden
open quote missing

[p. 123] ‘Well, now, why don’t you talk about yourself a bit?
open quote invisible

[p. 163 illustration]
[Is it just me or . . . does the ghost in this picture look an awful lot like Mark Twain? In fact the whole book has a Twainish flavor to it.]




The Leadenhall Press Book List,

50, Leadenhall Street,

London, E.C.



— The —
Leadenhall Press

Book List.



By Command Dedicated to [crown] Her Majesty the Queen.

LONDON CITY. Its History—Streets—Traffic—Buildings—People. By W. J. Loftie, B.A., F.S.A. Nearly Three Hundred Illustrations by W. Luker, Jr., from Original Drawings. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Two Guineas.

A most interesting and superbly illustrated quarto.


pointer New Book by Mr. Jerome K. Jerome.

Printed in a novel and attractive manner, and most cleverly and profusely illustrated.

TOLD AFTER SUPPER. By Jerome K. Jerome, author of “The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow,” &c., &c. Illustrated by Kenneth M. Skeaping. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Five Shillings.



THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW: A BOOK FOR AN IDLE HOLIDAY. One-hundred-and-fourteenth Edition. By Jerome K. Jerome, Author of “On the Stage—and Off.” LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Half-a-Crown.

“The Idle Thoughts by Jerome, with his special private views,
Is a book all busy people should undoubtedly peruse.”—Punch.


ON THE STAGE—AND OFF. The brief career of a would-be actor. Fifteenth Edition. By Jerome K. Jerome. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


OXFORD TO PALESTINE. Being Notes of a Tour made in the Autumn of 1889. By the Rev. Joseph Ll. Thomas, M.A., Briton Ferry. Author of “An Undergraduate’s Trip to Italy and Attica.” LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street. E.C. Two-and-Sixpence.


A LIFE’S REMINISCENCES OF SCOTLAND YARD. By Andrew Lansdowne, Detective-Inspector, late of the Criminal Investigation Department, Metropolitan Police. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Two-and-Sixpence.


LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Five Shillings.


NEVER HIT A MAN NAMED SULLIVAN! By A. Dewar Willock, M.J.I., author of “Rosetty End,” “She Noddit to Me,” &c. &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Two-and-Sixpence.


A STORY OF STOPS. By Mrs. Davidson, of Tulloch, author of “Kitten’s Goblins.” Prettily Illustrated by the authoress. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Five Shillings.


KITTEN’S GOBLINS. By Mrs. Davidson, of Tulloch. With a dozen whole-page illustrations by the authoress.


LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Five Shillings.


DIARY OF EVE IN EDEN, A.M., 1. Edited by A Daughter of Eve, A.D., 1890. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


GEORDIE: the Adventures of A North Country Waif and Stray. By a North-countrywoman. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


EPHEMERA: Essays on Various Subjects. By E. H. Lacon Watson. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.



A WEEK IN A WHERRY IN THE NORFOLK BROADS. By “Blue Peter,” Illustrated by “The Purser.” LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Five Shillings.


RESCUED ESSAYS OF THOMAS CARLYLE. Edited with an Introduction and Notes by Percy Newberry. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


RANCH-LAND: A Romance of Adventure and Adven­turers. By W. B. Gilpin, author of “Hunting and Racing Stories,” &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Six Shillings.


THREE BEAUTIES; or, the Idols of The Village. By Millwood Manners, author of “Three Loves,” “The Martivals,” &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


UP THE MOONSTAIR, a Story for Children. By Albert E. Hooper, with Twelve Illustrations by Harry Parkes. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Three-and-Sixpence.


RUS IN URBE: or Flowers that Thrive in London Gardens and Smoky Towns. By M. E. Haweis. Illustrated. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

“Full of encouragement for the patient townsman who desires a garden or something green to make cheerful his surroundings.”—Saturday Review.


IZAAK WALTON: HIS WALLET BOOK, Being the Songs in “The Compleat Angler” newly set forth and Illustrated by Joseph Crawhall. Hand-made paper; vellum bound, with inside humorously lettered silk-sewn pockets. Edition-de-luxe, limited and numbered. The numerous illustrations all separately hand-coloured. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.

One Guinea (500 Copies only); Large Paper, Two Guineas (100 copies only).

One of Mr. Crawhall’s engraved blocks—that is, the boxwood block itself—is attached as a pendent to a silk book marker to each copy of the large paper edition only.


PEOPLE WE MEET. By Charles F. Rideal. Illustrated by Harry Parkes. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

A limited edition of 250 only, proof copies signed and numbered. Five Shillings.




HANDBOOK OF LONDON BANKERS, with Some Account of their Predecessors the Early Goldsmiths, together with List of Bankers from 1670, &c., &c. By F. G. Hilton Price, F.S.A. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street C. Fifteen Shillings.


THE CONFESSIONS OF A POACHER. Edited by John Watson, F.L.S., author of “Nature and Woodcraft,” “Sylvan Folk” &c., &c. Illustrated by James West. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-Street, E.C. Two-and-Sixpence.


PRINCE DORUS. By Charles Lamb. A reproduction of the first edition of 1811, including all the beautiful coloured plates. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Seven-and-Sixpence.

Five hundred copies only printed, each being separately numbered & signed.

A copy of this scarce and amusing book for children was recently sold by auction for £45.

“This bright little volume will have a place in every collection of modern literary curiosities.”—Notes and Queries.



PRINCE DORUS. By Charles Lamb. A reproduction of the scarce and pretty first edition of 1811, including all the coloured plates. With Introduction by Andrew W. Tuer, F.S.A. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E C. One Shilling.


BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. By Charles Lamb. With an Introduction by Andrew Lang. Illustrated with eight beautiful steel plates engraved in facsimile from the original edition. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Three-and-Sixpence.

A charming book of equal interest to children and their elders.

One hundred signed copies only, containing a set of earliest open-letter proofs of the eight illustrations in red, and a duplicate set in brown. Ten-and-Sixpence: raised to Two Guineas.


THE HANDSOME EXAMINER, his Adventures in Learning and Love, by Robert St. John Corbet. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


PALAVER: or, the Fairy Genius of Atlantis. By “B.,” author of “A Political Catechism.” LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


HOW TO FAIL IN LITERATURE. A Lecture. By Andrew Lang. Revised, corrected and augmented. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.




THE PERFECT WAY; or, The Finding of Christ. By Anna Kingsford, M.D. (Paris), and Edward Maitland. B.A. (Cantab). LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Seven-and-Sixpence.

“One of the most—perhaps the most—important and spirit-stirring of appeals to the highest instincts of mankind which modern European literature has evolved.”—Theosophist.


POLICE! By Charles Tempest Clarkson, thirty-three years an Officer of Police; and J. Hall Richardson, Journalist on one of the London Dailies. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Six Shillings.

Whole page illustrations of Prisoners being photographed for “The Rogues’ Gallery”; Burglar’s Kit; and Metropolitan Police Constable.


THE ROGUES’ GALLERY. Portraits from Life, of Burglars, Receivers, Forgers, Cracksmen, Smashers, Bank Sneaks, House Thieves, Swell Mobsmen, Pickpockets, Swindlers, and Tricksters. By the Authors of “POLICE!”—C. T. Clarkson and J. H. Richardson. Illustrated by Harry Parkes. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall Press, E.C. One Shilling.


“THENKS AWF’LLY!” Sketched in Cockney and Hung on Twelve Pegs. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

Cockney lingo phonetically rendered: most amusing.


KING SQUASH OF TOADYLAND. By an Envoy Extraordinary. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Half-a-Crown.


THE CHRISTMAS BOX or New Year’s Gift. Being a Reproduction of the First Christmas Book published by the Religious Tract Society in 1825. Introduction by Dr. Green. Many quaint Cuts. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


LOST IN A BUCKET-SHOP: a Story of Stock Exchange Speculation. By C. J. Scotter. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


PRIZE SPECIMENS OF HANDWRITING, Ladies’ and Gentlemen’s. Contains many specimens, in facsimile, of the best handwriting for which prizes were recently awarded.
LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Sixpence.


LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.



Wherein will be found much that is Curious, Entertaining and Instructive. Compiled by Wilfred Allan. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Sixpence.


JOHN BULL JUNIOR: or French as She is Traduced. Enlarged from “Drat the Boys!” By Max O’Rell, author of “John Bull and his Island,” &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


JOHN BULL AND HIS ISLAND. (Cheap Edition.) Translated from the French by the Author, Max O’Rell. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

Translated into almost every European language, upwards of two hundred thousand copies of “John Bull and his Island” have been disposed of, and this remarkable book is still selling.


DRAT THE BOYS! or, Recollections of an ex-French Master in England. By Max O’Rell, author of “John Bull and his Island,” &c., &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Two Shillings.


A NEW SHILLING BOOK OF ALPHABETS, Plain and Ornamental, Ancient and Modern. For the use of Architects, Clergymen, Decorators, Designers, Draughtsmen, Teachers, &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


THE PYRAMIDS AND TEMPLES OF GIZEH. By W. M. Flinders Petrie. Containing an account of excavations and surveys carried on at Gizeh during 1880-1-2; with the application of the results to various modern theories of the pyramids. Illustrated. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Cheap and revised edition. Six Shillings.

“No one can fail to profit by a study of Mr. Flinders Petrie’s exact and luminous account of the Pyramids and Temples of Gizeh.”—Spectator.


A SEASON IN EGYPT. By W. M. Flinders Petrie. Illustrated. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Twelve Shillings.


THE AGE OF MARIE ANTOINETTE. A sketch of the period of European revival, which claims amongst its representatives Gœthe, Prudhon, Gainsborough, and Mozart. By Charles Newton Scott, author of “The Foregleams of Christianity,” &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Two Shillings.


PRINCE BISMARCK’S MAP OF EUROPE. By “Cylinder.” LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Sixpence.


page image

page image



HIEROGLYPHIC BIBLE. Being a careful selection of the most interesting and important passages in the Old and New Testaments. Illustrated with hundreds of Engravings on Wood. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


THE STORY OF “BRADSHAW’S GUIDE.” By Percy Fitzgerald, M.A., F.S.A. With Frontispiece and Portrait. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


(SPANISH & PORTUGUESE FOLKLORE.) By Charles Sellers. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Half-a-Crown.


A Pearl of English Rhetoric.

THOMAS CARLYLE on the repeal of the union.
LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Sixpence.


THROUGH ENGLAND ON A SIDE-SADDLE IN THE TIME OF WILLIAM & MARY; being the Diary of Celia Fiennes. With an explanatory Introduction by The Hon. Mrs. Griffiths. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Twelve-and-Sixpence.


MEN, MAIDENS & MANNERS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO. By John Ashton. With thirty-four contemporary illustrations. LONDON The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


THE GRIEVANCES BETWEEN AUTHORS AND PUBLISHERS, being the Report of the Conferences of the Incorporated Society of Authors held in Willis’s Rooms in March, 1887, with Additional Matter and Summary. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Two Shillings.


FIFTY-FIVE GUINEAS REWARD. A Sensational Story. By Fred. C. Milford, Author of “Lost! A Day.” Fifth Edition. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


JOHN OLDCASTLE’S GUIDE FOR LITERARY BEGINNERS. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

“Is the only practical and common sense book on the subject we know of.”



POLITICAL WIT AND HUMOUR IN OUR OWN TIMES. Collected and Edited by T. Williams. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. By Samuel Richardson. With Six Illustrations from the original copperplates engraved in 1778 by Isaac Taylor; and a Preface by John Oldcastle. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Sixteen-pence.

The beautiful illustrations have been carefully and separately struck off direct from the original copperplates themselves—the only method of printing by which the minuteness and beauty of the engraved work can be properly rendered.

“A marvellously cheap series illustrated with charming survivals of the age of copperplate printing.”—Saturday Review.


TRISTRAM SHANDY. By Laurence Sterne. With Six unpublished Illustrations in aquatint, printed direct from the original copperplates, engraved in 1820: and an Introductory Note by John Oldcastle. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Sixteen-pence.


SOLOMON GESSNER, “The Swiss Theocritus.” With Six Illustrations and Extra Portrait from the original copperplates engraved in 1802 by Robert Cromek, from Drawings by Thomas Stothard, R.A., and a Preface by John Oldcastle. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Sixteen-pence.

The beautiful illustrations have been carefully and separately struck off direct from the original copperplates themselves—the only method of printing by which the minuteness and beauty of the engraved work can be properly rendered.

“The choice engravings from the original plates will have a charm for thousands.”—St. James’s Gazette.


THE SEASONS. By James Thomson. With Four Illustrations and extra Portrait printed direct from the original copperplates, engraved in 1792, and an Introductory Note by John Oldcastle, LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Sixteen-pence.

Having no more original copperplates of a suitable character, the publishers regretfully announce that they are unable to further continue this series. The three preceding issues are Tristram Shandy, Sir Charles Grandison and Solomon Gessner. The four make a handsome and interesting volume.


ÆSOP REDIVIVUS: Written for Boys and Girls between 6 and 106 Years of Age. By Mary Boyle. A most amusing book. Numerous Cuts. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

“Old cuts are here wedded to fables new,

But I’d skip the morals if I were you.”



HOUSEKEEPING MADE EASY. By a Lady. A simplified method of keeping accounts, arranged to commence from any date. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.


GRAY’S ELEGY: with Sixteen beautiful Illustrations by Norman Prescott Davies, facsimiled from his original drawings in the possession, and published by the gracious permission of H. R. H. The Princess of Wales. Bound in gold lettered vellum, with broad silken bands and strings. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Guinea.

“A work of very great beauty.”—Leeds Mercury.


SONNETS. (Revised and Enlarged Edition.) By Emily Pfeiffer, author of “Gerard’s Monument,” “Under the Aspens,” “The Rhyme of the Lady of the Rock,” “Flying Leaves from East and West,” &c., &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Six Shillings.

“Among the finest in the language.”—Spectator.

“These Sonnets are poetic gems.”—Sunday Times.

“The work of a poet of rare intuition.”—Scotsman.


FLYING LEAVES FROM EAST AND WEST. (Second Edition.) By Emily Pfeiffer, author of “Sonnets,” “Gerard’s Monument,” “Under the Aspens,” “The Rhyme of the Lady of the Rock,” &c., &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street. E.C. Six Shillings.

“The best book written on the American continent.”—Academy.


1,000 QUAINT CUTS FROM BOOKS OF OTHER DAYS, including Amusing Illustrations from Children’s Story Books, Fables, Chap-books, &c., &c.; a Selection of Pictorial Initial Letters and Curious Designs and Ornaments from Original Wooden Blocks belonging to The Leadenhall Press. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Sixteen-pence.

A limited number printed on one side of the paper only at Two-and-Eightpence.

“A wonderful collection of entertaining old wood engravings . . . any one of these delights is worth the one-and-fourpence.”—Saturday Review.


MODERN MEN. By A Modern Maid. Contents: The Decay of Courtesy, Our Partners, Our Fellow Boarders, Husbands and Brothers, The Vanity of Men, Men and Money Matters, Objectionable Lovers, &c., &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Two Shillings.

A book in which modern men are amusingly abused.



LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

“Baby’s Record” is a daintily got-up little book for mothers in which to jot down particulars concerning baby, and “will prove,” says an experienced London physician, “an invaluable aid to the doctor in the treatment of ailments in later life.”


1st January, 1901. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

“Displays an exhaustive knowledge of the diplomatical relations betweens the different countries of Europe and of history in general.”—Morning Post.


EIGHT TALES OF FAIRY LAND. By Louise Poirez. With “three times eight are twenty-four” illustrations by V. Gertrude Muntz. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Two-and-Sixpence.

A cleverly written and cleverly illustrated set of fairy tales for children.


SILVER VOICE: A Fairy Tale, being the Adventures of Harry’s Mother, Harry’s Sweetheart, and Harry Himself. Many hand-coloured comical Illustrations. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One-and-Sixpence.

An amusing tale for little ones—with the suspicion of a moral!


SOCIALISM OF TO-DAY. By Emile de Laveleye. Translated from the French by Goddard H. Orpen. Including “Socialism in England,” by the Translator. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Six Shillings.


ENGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE: or a Jest in Sober Earnest: Ninth Edition. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

A manual by means of which the Portuguese author, who has struggled with the difficulties of the English language by aid of dictionary and phrase-book, proposes to teach its complexities to his fellow countrymen. The solemn good faith of the writer crowns the unapproachable grotesqueness of his composition.

“Excruciatingly funny.”—The World.


ENGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE: or a Jest in Sober Earnest. “Her Seconds Part.” (new matter.) LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

An unlimited mine of salt for diners-out.

“Deliciously humorous.”—Detroit Free Press.



OLD LONDON STREET CRIES, AND THE CRIES OF TO-DAY, with Heaps of Quaint Cuts, including Hand-coloured Frontispiece. By Andrew W. Tuer, Author of “Bartolozzi and his Works,” &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Thirty-fifth thousand. One Shilling.

“Very amusing. Charmingly pretty. A wonderful shilling’s-worth.” Globe.


DAME WIGGINS OF LEE. Hand-coloured Illustrations.
LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Shilling.

A Reprint of a picture book—illustrated from the original blocks, hand-coloured—used by our grandmothers when young. Dame Wiggins of Lee has met with the strong approval of Mr. Ruskin.



Book of Alphabets / Plain & Ornamental

Including Sets of Numerals, and many Decorative Designs, &c.,


Architects, Clergymen, Decorators, Designers, Draughtsmen, Teachers, and all who have occasion to copy Alphabets (capitals and small letters) both Ancient and Modern, Plain and Fanciful.

LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.



(Punch is responsible for this transposition!)

The Hairless Author’s Paper Pad

“With Bad Paper, one’s Best is impossible.”

The Author’s Hairless Paper-Pad (Issued by the Proprietors of The Leadenhall Press). Contains, in block form, fifty sheets of strong hairless paper, over which—being of unusual but not painful smoothness—the pen slips with perfect freedom. Easily detachable, the size of the sheets is about 7½ × 8¾ in., and the price is only that charged for common scribbling paper. The Author’s Hairless Paper-Pad may be comfortably used, whether at the desk, held in the hand, or resting on the knee. As being most convenient for both author and compositor the paper is ruled the narrow way, and of course on one side only.—Sixpence each: 5/- per dozen, ruled or plain.*


The Author’s Hairless Paper-Pad Holder—suggested by Punch—is equally useful to the busy few who write when travelling, and to stay-at-homes who dislike the restraint of desk or table. It is intended that the wooden rim at the side of the Author’s Hairless Paper-Pad Holder should be grasped by the left hand, the right being free to travel over the whole surface of the paper from top to bottom. The height of Pad and Holder will be kept uniform if each written sheet is placed as torn off underneath the Pad, the base of which is now thick blotting paper instead of the old and useless cardboard. The ordinary sloped position when in use keeps Pad and Holder together.—One Shilling.*


* If to be forwarded by post, send 2d. extra for postage of single Pad, and 10½d. for postage of one dozen Pads. The postage on one Pad-Holder is 2d., and one Pad-Holder and one Pad together, 3d.



By Command Dedicated to [crown] Her Majesty the Queen.

LONDON CITY. Its History—Streets—Traffic—Buildings—People. By W. J. Loftie, B.A., F.S.A. Nearly Three Hundred Illustrations by W. Luker, Jr., from Original Drawings. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Two Guineas.

A most interesting and superbly illustrated quarto.

By Command Dedicated to [crown] Her Majesty the Queen.

Upwards of 300 Superb Illustrations (some beautifully hand-coloured).

KENSINGTON: PICTURESQUE AND HISTORICAL. By W. J. Loftie, B.A., F.S.A., Author of “A History of London,” &c., &c. Illustrated by W. Luker, Jun., from Original Drawings carefully finished on the spot and engraved in Paris. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. £3 3s.

By Command Dedicated to [crown] Her Majesty the Queen.

ETON SONGS, written by Arthur C. Ainger, set to Music by Joseph Barnby: numerous illustrations by Herbert Marshall. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. One Guinea.

By Command Dedicated to [crown] Her Majesty the Queen.

SONGS OF THE NORTH. (Sixth Edition.) Gathered together from the Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland. Edited by A. C. Macleod and Harold Boulton. The Music arranged by Malcolm Lawson. Frontispiece “Proud Maisie,” by Fred Sandys. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Twelve-and-Sixpence.

By Command Dedicated to [crown] Her Majesty the Queen.

BARTOLOZZI AND HIS WORKS. (New Edition.) Biographical, Anecdotal, and Descriptive. By Andrew W. Tuer. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. Twelve-and-Sixpence.

By Command Dedicated to [crown] Her Majesty the Queen.

THE FOLLIES AND FASHIONS OF OUR GRANDFATHERS (1807). Embellished with Thirty-seven whole-page Plates of Ladies’ and Gentlemen’s Dress (hand-coloured and heightened with gold and silver), Sporting and Coaching Scenes, &c., &c. By Andrew W. Tuer. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.

Large Paper copies, crown 4to, with earliest impressions of the plates; 250 only, signed and numbered, at Three Guineas.

Demy 8vo. copies at Twenty-five Shillings.

Notes and Corrections: Publisher’s Advertising

The series of alphabets labeled “Specimens of Types” were printed sideways on the double-page spread between advertising pages 7 and 8. Part of the page image was lost in the gutter.

[If anyone knows where I can lay my hands on this book—not to be confused with Mark Twain’s Diary of Eve from a few years later—I am avid to see what it’s about. But even WorldCat doesn’t seem to know of any extant copies.]

A copy of this scarce and amusing book for children was recently sold by auction for £45.
[The introduction to the Leadenhall reprint—the same edition being advertised here—says, dampeningly, that the £45 copy was in fact from the 1818 second edition, and is not worth more than a pound or so.]

Ten-and-Sixpence: raised to Two Guineas.
[I’m missing something here. How and why did the price get to be raised to four times as much?]

Anna Kingsford, M.D. (Paris), and Edward Maitland. B.A. (Cantab).
opening parenthesis in (Cantab) invisible
[Trivia: The University of Paris admitted women to medical study in 1869. In the early years, most female students were British.]

LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, 50, Leadenhall Press, E.C.
text unchanged: error for “50, Leadenhall-street”
[Somebody must have taken a ribbing for that typo.]

ALPHABETS . . . For the use of Architects, Clergymen, Decorators, Designers, Draughtsmen, Teachers
[One of these things is not like the others; one of these things is not the same.]

Gœthe, Prudhon, Gainsborough
form “Gœthe” unchanged

printed as shown, with anomalous small capitals

SOLOMON GESSNER . . . 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.
text has “Leadenhall-stree”

FLYING LEAVES FROM EAST AND WEST . . . “The best book written on the American continent.”
[Emily Jane Pfeiffer (b. Davis) appears to have been English. What was she doing on the “American continent”? (And, ahem, which one?)]

1,000 QUAINT CUTS . . . Sixteen-pence . . . Two-and-Eightpence
[Or, if you prefer, you can choose between the cheaper version at one-and-fourpence and the more expensive version at thirty-two pence.]

A cleverly written and cleverly illustrated set of fairy tales for children.
f in “for” invisible

Punch is responsible for this transposition!
[The Leadenhall Press must have loved this Punch joke. A year or so later, On the Stage—and Off included an almost identical ad.]

The original of this text is in the public domain—at least in the U.S.
My notes are copyright, as are all under-the-hood elements.
If in doubt, ask.