exposed. And Mr. Foster shall have all the attention he wants if I ever find the leisure to bestow on him, though my time is fully occupied with worthier objects.
I have also been complimented with a buzz and an attempt to sting from my old friend S. B. Brittan, the ex-Universalist minister—the very surprisingly efficient “man Friday” of Andrew Jackson Davis, in the production of the “Revelations” of the said Davis, and also ghost-fancier in general; who has gently aired part of his vocabulary in a communication to the “Banner of Light,” with the heading “Exposed for Two Shillings.” I can afford very well to expose friend Brittan and his spiritualist humbugs for two shillings. The honester the cheaper. It evidently vexes the spiritualists to have their ghosts put with the monkeys in the Museum. They can’t help it, though; and it is my deliberate opinion that the monkeys are much the most respectable. I have no wish to displease any honest person; but the more the spiritualists squirm, and snarl, and scold, and call names, the more they show that I am hurting them. Or—does my friend Brittan himself want an engagement at the Museum? Will he produce some “manifestations” there, and get that $500?—the money is ready!
A valued friend of mine has furnished me a pleasant and true narrative of a fine “spiritual” humbug which took place in a respectable Massachusetts village not very long ago. I give the story in his own graphic words:
“Two artists of Boston, tired of the atmosphere of their studios, resolved themselves, in joint session, into
