the lower part of his face was tied up, in what is commonly called
a Belcher handkerchief. He slowly removed this bandage, and
exposed to view a long dark beard, curling over his upper lip,
twisting about the corners of his mouth, and hanging down upon his
breast.

'What is this?' I exclaimed involuntarily, 'and what have you
become?'

'I am the Ghost of Art!' said he.

The effect of these words, slowly uttered in the thunder-storm at
midnight, was appalling in the last degree. More dead than alive,
I surveyed him in silence.

'The German taste came up,' said he, 'and threw me out of bread. I
am ready for the taste now.'

He made his beard a little jagged with his hands, folded his arms,
and said,

'Severity!'

I shuddered. It was so severe.

He made his beard flowing on his breast, and, leaning both hands on
the staff of a carpet-broom which Mrs. Parkins had left among my
books, said:

'Benevolence.'