“Of course, my uncle knew very well that there was some mystery in the matter, and that everything had passed exactly as he used to relate it. He remained staunch to the great oath he had sworn to the beautiful young lady, refusing several eligible landladies on her account, and dying a bachelor at last. He always said what a curious thing it was that he should have found out, by such a mere accident as his clambering over the palings, that the ghosts of mail-coaches and horses, guards, coachmen, and passengers, were in the habit of making journeys regularly every night. He used to add, that he believed he was the only living person who had ever been taken as a passenger on one of these excursions. And I think he was right, gentlemen⁠—at least I never heard of any other.”

“I wonder what these ghosts of mail-coaches carry in their bags,” said the landlord, who had listened to the whole story with profound attention.

“The dead letters, of course,” said the bagman.

“Oh, ah! To be sure,” rejoined the landlord. “I never thought of that.”