"Some time ago," he said, "one HARLEY lived there, a whimsical sort
of man I am told, but I was not then in the cure; though, if I had a
turn for those things, I might know a good deal of his history, for
the greatest part of it is still in my possession."
"His history!" said I. "Nay, you may call it what you please," said
the curate; for indeed it is no more a history than it is a sermon.
The way I came by it was this: some time ago, a grave, oddish kind
of a man boarded at a farmer's in this parish: the country people
called him The Ghost; and he was known by the slouch in his gait,
and the length of his stride. I was but little acquainted with him,
for he never frequented any of the clubs hereabouts. Yet for all he
used to walk a-nights, he was as gentle as a lamb at times; for I
have seen him playing at teetotum with the children, on the great
stone at the door of our churchyard.
"Soon after I was made curate, he left the parish, and went nobody
knows whither; and in his room was found a bundle of papers, which
was brought to me by his landlord. I began to read them, but I soon
grew weary of the task; for, besides that the hand is intolerably
bad, I could never find the author in one strain for two chapters
together; and I don't believe there's a single syllogism from
beginning to end.
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