stories of ghosts and murderers, they scamper through the echoing rooms, and the gnawing of their teeth is heard behind the wainscot, and their gleaming eyes peer through the holes in the worm-eaten tapestry, and they scream in shrill, unearthly notes in the dead of night, while the moaning wind sweeps, sobbing, round the ruined turret towers, and passes wailing like a woman through the chambers bare and tenantless.
And dying prisoners, in their loathsome dungeons, see, through the horrid gloom, their small red eyes like glittering coals, hear, in the death-like silence, the rush of their claw-like feet, and start up shrieking in the darkness, and watch through the awful night.
I love to read tales about rats. They make my flesh creep so. I like that tale of Bishop Hatto and the rats. The wicked Bishop, you know, had ever so much corn, stored in his granaries, and would not let the starving people touch it, but, when they prayed to him for food, gathered them together in his barn, and then shutting the doors on them, set fire to the place and burned them all to death. But next day there came thousands upon thousands of rats, sent to do judgment on him. Then Bishop Hatto fled to his strong tower that stood in the middle of the Rhine, and barred himself in, and fancied he was safe. But the rats! they swam the river, they gnawed their way
