LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1075, 7 December 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE GHOUL. (Continued.) 'But,' observed the thin woman of the drab dress and untied strings, ' that was no way for a Christian man to think. It might be all very well for an elephant or a circus clown to go jigging about with their heads between their knees, because that was their way of getting a living; but if a man's thougMs made him behave that way, what must his thoughts be like ?' Another woman gave it as her opinion that the Ghoul was not at such moments thinking at all. 'For,' she urged, 'couldn't he sit down and have a pint of beer and a think comfortable, and not go on like that, hopping about on his heels as if he was a frog in a fit, or a water-wagtail in liquor ?' This woman further gave it as her opinion that at such times, instead of thinking, he was trying to resist the efforts of Some One to drag him down Somewhere by the head, and that the voice of a good Christian made Some One loose his hold. The result of these disturbing peculiarities was a conviction in the breast of every woman of Cerewood street that the Ghoul ought to be put to death, and that if burning were practicable, it would be the best manner of getting him out of the way. It must not, however, be supposed that the old second-hand bookseller got the name he bore from these strange and chilling habits, or from the obscure privacy in which his life was passed. The people surrounding him were nicer in their application of words than to be guilty of such an abuse of language. Many years before they had fixed this title upon him they had enjoyed the benefits of his library and cheap books. They had educated themselves high above hapbazard or levity with words. They had called him the Ghoul deliberately, and after much consideration. They applied the name to him because no subject of consideration so excited or absorbed his attention as details of mangled bodies, brutal and ferocious murders, and cruel physical sufferings, the relation of which made the blood run cold and the body quiver. Every evening a little knot of men gathered into the Ghoul's back shop, and there discussed in the most elaborate and exhaustive method the latest murder in the city or provinces, or France, or places still further afield. All the particular circumstances and incidents, from the color of the victim's hair as a boy, down to his appearance when found as a man under the blind arch, were expanded and dwelt upon, until the brows of the listeners grew damp with terror. An execution, warm from the pen of a glowing writer, paralysed the old man with shuddering excitement. The account from China of how they broke a conspirator's knees out of the sockets, or drove greased oak wedges undo the toe-nails, caused the old man to whine about the room, in an epiletpic rapture. Most of these horrors were purveyed by the Ghoul himself, but occasionally the honest tradesman could give facta which the Ghoul conjured into terrors. There were often blank periods -when contemporaneous criminals failed to do deeds of sufficient atrocity to tickle the old man into enthusiasm. Then he fell back upon his store of books. He loved voyages and travels best after strongly flavoured accounts of ecclesiastical wars, their strifes and punishments; and ho was minutely familiar with the form and history of every torture from the earliest records down to those of the passing day. It was, however, chiefly because of the interest he took in corpses that he was called toe Ghoul, and a belief obtained generally that he had been led to adopt Cercwood street as a place of residence, because it afforded him a good opportunity of pursuing his favourite study and obtaining recondite facts.

Through the honest tradesmen of the street he heard of all kinds of deformities and malformations. Now it was the vanity of a poor hunchback who, though measuring only 3ft. Sin., put a clause in his will commanding that he should be buried in a coffin of full proportions. Now it was a rich banker who, upon the eve of insolvency, had slain himself with a swift and awful poison which wraped the body into such a bow. that the coffin had to be 2ft. lOin. in height. They told him of the exact appearance of the criminal, and they told [him of the exact appearance of his prey, and the precise spot where the bullet-mark had been. From the ghastly nature of the tales narrated in the evenings, this little back shop had by the women been called the Morgue, and in the end it was always spoken of as the Morgue, and never as the Ghoul's back sbop. The most singular of all things about the little old man, whose name happened to bo Isaac Phayre, was that no matter how interesting the circumstances, or provoking th« be never could be induced to show any ingenuity in the case where a woman was the sufferer.

' And so,' he would say, when some one brought him a piece of intelligence about the strange discovery of a woman's body, ' they found the poor thin£ lying in the ooze with a blue silk scarf round her waist and a flower in her bosom? Toor thing! Poor thing ! Poor thing ! Love, no doubt. Love, or jealousy, or despair, no doubt. Ah. these women Buffer a deal! a dual we ccrcr

dream of!' and so would pass from the -übjeet.

There existed three stages in the popular 'eminine belief respecting Isaac Phayre, the ihoul. First : that it was not, or had not een, all light with him. Second ! that he had murdered a woman. Third : that he was in the habit of murdering women, and that all his time not devoted to the shop was spent in c mmitting such assassinations •is were likely to pass for ever undiscovered, because of the vast knowledge possessed by him in such matters.

' Look here,' said a bare-armed woman talking solemnly over her tub of clothes to a few neighbours who had come to hear the •irac l '.', or got her famous recipe, jfor the chin cough, 'I do believe that 'ihoul could murder you without your ever being able to know it, and make away with your body and your husband never miss you.' ''l hat's my belief too,' agreed a serious elderly lady, charging her knitting needles, and shaking her head gravely at the tub. ' I don't know about our husb?nds not musing us,' doubted a comely matron of three and-twenty. ' I think if I wasn't waiting at th" door for my John when he came back, he'd miss me.'

' Not if you was murdered by the Ghoul.' declared the oracle in a chilling and warning voice, as who should say, ' Remember, in doubting the oracle on this point, you are at once impious and offering defiance to the Ghoul.'

' Not if you was murdered by the Ghoul,' echoed the elderly lacy with the knitting, in despairing tones, as who should say, ' These inexperienced young wives put so much faith in their young husbands, they grow over bold against the rest of the world : but time will alter this with them.'

In line, the conviction largely prevailed that Isaac Phayre was a murderer, and to the minds of many he still employed his midnight hours in occult and perfidious methods of bloodshedding. The inhabitants of the street felt secure, 'For,'theyargued, 1 he'd never touch one of us that know him, because then he'd be found out in no time.' So, though the people had a creeping awe of him, they felt no personal fears. One Monday morning the dwellers in Cerewood street were struck dumb with amazement to find the shop of the Ghoul still closed at breakfast time. Such a thing had never occurred before. The use of hammers and saws was suspended forthought and speculation. The women stood at their doors, their hands under their aprons, and canvassed the matter across the street. The children squeezed their faces sideways against the shutters of the old-book shop, and endeavoured to see through the chinks, but got only cut cheeks and eyebrows for their trouble. The women held that at last he had been detected in his midnight crimes, and was now in the hands of the police. The men shook their heads, and James Gort, the chief coffin maker, muttered'A fit, a fit. Some one ought to break in and see.'

While debate was at its height, the door of the second-hand bookshop opened, and Isaac Phayre stepped into the street.

He closed the door after him and locked it; and, with drooping head and downcast eyes, walked a short distance along the footway, then, looking neither to the right nor left, he crossed the pavement, and directed his steps towards the shop of -Tames Gort, the chief coffin-maker of the street.

As the Ghoul approached, James retired. He felt somewhat aggrieved, because Isaac Phayre was not in that tit he had arranged for him.

' (rood morning, James,' said the Ghoul, raising his head for a brief moment. ' Good morning, Mr Isaac,' responded the other. Whatever the people may have thought of the Ghoul, they always addressed him respectfully. • Can I speak a few wordd with you'—he glanced at James's wife and the intelligent apprentice, Michael —'in private? I have something to sav to you.' 'What can he want?' mentally queried James. I wonder, is he expecting a sheriffs officer? Well, if so, I wouldn't see him short of a few pounds.' Aloud he said, • Step into the back shop. I'll be with you presently.' He wished to have just half a word with his wife.

' Don't, have anything to do with it !' whispered the woman in a warning voice, as soon as the Ghoul had disappeared. 'lts some bad job or other.' ' What do you mean ?' demanded the worthy man in perplexty. ' He wants a coffin.'

'Eh !' cries he in astonishment. ' How can he want a coffin when he's not dead ? He hadn't the fit, or he had it and got out of it.'

'He wants a coffin,' repeated his wife emphatically, as if she uttered a revealed fact.

• He did look uncommon like polished pine broke in Michael, the intelligent apprcntie, with a glance of confirmation. ' Eh '?' muttered the man in bewilderment, what is that you say?' ' I saw his eyes running over the stock like a jack-plane on a soaped plank ; and if my indentures is to be of any use to me, I think I ought to know the look of a customer now, and the kind of article that would suit him.'

' But.' began the master in a tone plainly indicating that faith in himself had been greatly shaken, and that he found himself in a contemptible position, ' What on earth can he want of a coffin ?' ' Want !' sneered his wife close to his ear. 1 He was at his old work again last night, and he can't get rid of the body. That's what it is, and you'd better take care of what you have to do with the matter.' 4 Such nonsense !' he protested, with an attempt to smile.

1 You'd better be careful!' were the last words he heard from his wife as he followed the Ghoul.

As soon as the coffin-maker entered, the little old man said in an unsteady voic*— ' James, will you shut the door, please?'

The other complied, and as he did so he felt a cold shiver pass down his back. There might be something, after all, in what his wife and Michael had been saying. When he came from the door, the Ghoul was rubbing his bald head with a red cotton handkerchief which seemed damp, and which was almost wholly concealed in his large lean right hand. (To he continued.}