less bounded in its own proper creations, than in those which were bestowed on it by the poor blind eyes of our ancestors. What has become of enchantresses with their palaces of crystal and dungeons of palpable darkness? What of fairies and their wands? What of witches and their familiars? and, last, what of ghosts, with beckoning hands and fleeting shapes, which quelled the soldier's brave heart, and made the murderer disclose to the astonished noon the veiled work of midnight? These which were realities to our forefathers, in our wiser age Yet is it true that we do not believe rushing wind, a long and dusky passage, an half open door-O, then truly, another answer may be given, and many will request leave to sleep upon it, before they decide whether there be such a thing as a ghost in the world, or out of the world, if that phraseology be more spiritual. What is the meaning of this feeling? I For my own part, I never saw a ghost except once in a dream. feared it in my sleep; I awoke trembling, and lights and the speech of others could hardly dissipate my fear. Some years ago I lost a friend, and a few months afterwards visited the house where I had last seen him. It was deserted, and though in the midst of a city, its vast halls and spacious apartments occasioned the same sense of loneliness as if it had been situated on an uninhabited heath. I walked in ghosts? There used to be several traditionary tales repeated, with their authorities, enough to stagger us when we consigned them to that place where that is which "is as though it had through the vacant chambers by twilight, and none save I awakened the never been." But these are gone out of fashion. Brutus's dream has beechoes of their pavement. The far come a deception of his over-heated mountains (visible from the upper winbrain, Lord Lyttleton's vision is called dows) had lost their tinge of sunset ;a cheat; and one by one these inhabi-coloured as the golden stars appeared the tranquil atmosphere grew leaden tants of deserted houses, moonlight glades, misty mountain tops, and midnight church-yards, have been ejected from their immemorial seats, and small thrill is felt when the dead majesty of Denmark blanches the cheek and unsettles the reason of his philosophic son. But do none of us believe in ghosts? If this question be read at noon-day, when Every little corner, nook, and hole, Is penetrated with the insolent lightat such a time derision is seated on the features of my reader. But let it be Lwelve at night in a lone house; take up, I beseech you, the story of the Bleeding Nun; or of the Statue, to which the bridegroom gave the wedding ring, and she came in the dead of night to claim him, tall, white, and cold; or of the Grandsire, who with shadowy form and breathless lips stood over the couch and kissed the foreheads of his sleeping grand-children, and thus doomed them to their fated death; and let all these details be as sisted by solitude, flapping curtains, in the firmament; no wind ruffled the shrunk-up river which crawled lazily through the deepest channel of its wide and empty bed; the chimes of the Ave. Maria had ceased, and the bell bung invested a reposing world, and awe was moveless in the open belfry: beauty inspired by beauty only. I walked of the most poignant grief. He had through the rooms filled with sensations been there; his living frame had been caged by those walls, his breath had mingled with that atmosphere, his step had been on those stones, I thought :the earth is a tomb, the gaudy sky a vault, we but walking corpses. The wind rising in the east rushed through the open casements, making them shake;-methought, I heard, I felt-I know not what-but I trembled. To have seen him but for a moment, I would have knelt until the stones had been worn by the impress, so I told myself, and so I knew a moment after, but then I trembled, awe-struck and fearful. Wherefore? There is something beyond us of which we are ignorant. The sun drawing up the va porous air makes a void, and the wind rushes in to fill it, thus beyond our soul's ken there is an empty space ;and our hopes and fears, in gentle gales or terrific whirlwinds, occupy the vacuum; and if it does no more, it bestows on the feeling heart a belief that influences do exist to watch and guard us, though they be impalpable to the coarser faculties. I have heard that when Coleridge was asked if he believed in ghosts,—he replied that he had seen too many to put any trust in their reality; and the person of the most lively imagination that I ever knew echoed this reply. But these were not real ghosts (pardon, unbelievers, my mode of speech) that they saw; they were shadows, phantoms unreal; that while they appalled the senses, yet carried no other feeling to the mind of others than delusion,and were viewed as we might view an optical deception which we see to be true with our eyes, and know to be false with our understandings. I speak of other shapes. The returning bride who claims the fidelity of her betrothed; the murdered man who shakes to remorse the murderer's heart; ghosts that lift the curtains at the foot of your bed as the clock chimes one; who rise all pale and ghastly from the churchyard and haunt their ancient abodes; who, spoken to, reply; and whose cold unearthly touch makes the hair stand stark upon the head; the true old-fashioned, foretelling, flitting, gliding ghost,-who has seen such a one ? I have known two persons who at broad daylight have owned that they believed in ghosts, for that they had seen one. One of these was an Englishman, and the other an Italian.The former had lost a friend he dearly loved, who for awhile appeared to him nightly, gently stroking his cheek, and spreading a serene calm over his mind. He did not fear the appearance, altho' he was somewhat awe-stricken as each night it glided into his chamber, and, Ponsi del letto in su la sponda manca. This visitation continued for several weeks, when by some accident he altered his residence, and then he saw it no more. Such a tale may easily be explained away;-but several years had passed, and he, a man of strong and virile intellect, said that "he had seen a ghost." The Italian was a noble, a soldier, and by no means addicted to superstition: he had served in Napoleon's armies from early youth, and had been rewarded, and he unhesitatingly, and with deep belief, recounted his story. This Chevalier, a young, and (somewhat a miraculous incident) a gallant Italian, was engaged in a duel with a brother officer, and wounded him in the arm. The subject of the duel was frivolous; and distressed therefore at its consequences he attended on his youthful adversary during his consequent illness, so that when the latter recovered they became firm and dear friends. They were quartered toge ther at Milan, where the youth fell desperately in love with the wife of a musician, who disdained his passion, so that it preyed on his spirits and his health; he absented himself from all amusements, avoided all his brother officers, and his only consolation was to pour his love-sick plaints into the ear of the Chevalier, who strove in vain to inspire him either with indifference towards the fair disdainer, or to indulcate lessons of fortitude and heroism. As a last resource he urged him to ask leave of absence; and to seek, either in change of scene, or the ainusement of hunting, some diversion to his passion. One evening the youth came to the Chevalier, and said, " Well, I have asked leave of absence, and am to have it early to-morrow morning, so lend me your fowling-piece and cartridges, for I shall go to hunt for a fortnight." The Chevalier gave him what he asked; among the shot were a few bullets. "I will take these also,” said the youth, "to secure myself against the attack of any wolf, for I mean to bury myself in the woods." Although he had obtained that for which he came, the youth still lingered. He talked of the cruelty of his lady, lamented that she would not even permit him a hopeless attendance, but that she inexorably banished him from her sight, "so that," said he, "I have no hope but in oblivion." At length he rose to depart. He took the Cheva lier's hand and said, "You will see her tomorrow, you will speak to her, and hear her speak; tell her, I intreat you, that our conversation to-night has been concerning her, and that her name was the last that I spoke." "Yes, yes," cried the Chevalier, "I will say any thing you please; but you must not talk of her any more, you must forget her." The youth embraced his friend with warmth, but the latter saw nothing more in it than the effects of his affection, combined with his melancholy at absenting himself from his mistress, whose name,joined to a tender farewell, was the last sound that he uttered. When the Chevalier was on guard that night, he heard the report of a gun. He was at first troubled and agitated by it, but afterwards thought no more about it, and when relieved from guard went to bed, although he passed a restless, sleepless night. Early in the morning some one knocked at his door. It was a soldier, who said that he had got the young officer's leave of absence, and had taken it to his house; a servant had admitted him, and he had gone up stairs, but the room door of the officer was locked, and no one answered to his knocking, but something oozed through from under the door that looked like blood. The Chevalier, agitated and frightened at this account, hurried to his friend's house, burst open the door, and found him stretched on the ground-he had blown out his brains, and the body lay a headless trunk, cold, and stiff. The shock and grief which the Chevalier experienced in consequence of this catastrophe produced a fever which lasted for some days. When he got well, he obtained leave of absence, and went into the country to divert his mind. One evening at moonlight, he was returning home from a walk, and passed through a lane with a hedge on both sides, so high that he could not see over them. The night was balmy ;— the bushes gleamed with fireflies,brighter than the stars which the moon had veiled with her silver light. Suddenly he heard a rustling near him, and the figure of his friend issued from the hedge, and stood before him, mutilated as he had seen him after his death. This figure he saw several times, al - ways in the same place. It was impalpable to the touch, motionless, except in its advance, and made no sign when it was addressed. Once the Chevalier took a friend with him to the spot.→→ The same rustling was heard, the same shadow stept forth, his companion fled in horror, but the Chevalier staid, vainly endeavouring to discover what called his friend from his quiet tomb, and if any act of his might give repose to the restless shade. Such are my two stories, and I re cord them the more willingly, since they occurred to men, and to individuals distinguished the one for courage and the other for sagacity. I will conclude my "modern instances," with a story told by M. G. Lewis, not probably so authentic as these, but perhaps more amusing. I relate it as nearly as possible in his own words. "A gentleman journeying towards the house of a friend, who lived on the skirts of an extensive forest, in the east of Germany, lost his way. He wandered for some time among the trees, when he saw a light at a distance. On approaching it he was surprised to observe that it proceeded from the interior of a ruined monastery. Before he knocked at the gate he thought it proper to look through the window. He saw a number of cats assembled round a small grave, four of whom were at that moment letting_down a coffin with a crown upon it. The gentleman startled at this unusual sight, and, imagining that he had arrived at the retreats of fiends or witches, mounted his horse and rode away with the utmost precipitation. He arrived at his friend's house at a late hour, who sate up waiting for him. On his arrival his friend questioned him as to the cause of the traces of agitation visible in his face. He began to recount his adven-' tures after much hesitation, knowing that it was scarcely possible that his friend should give faith to his relation. No sooner had he mentioned the coffin with the crown upon it,than his friend's cat, who seemed to have been lying asleep before the fire,leaped up, crying out, Then I am king of the cats; and then scrambled up the chimney, and was never seen more." (Blackwood's Edin. Mag.) HIS LANDLADY. WH WHEN at college himself he had been a little gay, and remembering the consequences of his own follies, was anxious that I should pay some attention to Edmund. "I know your habits," said he; but what I mean by attention is not that sort of hospitable kindness, which is apt to bring on the very evil I wish to guard against; in a ward, I entreat for him the attention of an observant eye-the eye of a censor-as well as the occasional advice of a friend." Heaven knows how ill qualified I am by nature for any office of severity, especially towards the aberrations of young men. Among the pleasantest recollections of my youth, are many things that old age now told me were very naughty, while it makes me sigh that I shall never perform them again. But how could I refuse such a request?-I had not heard of Lumley for more than forty years, and to be so affectionately reminded of the follies we had committed together-Follies! what vile translations are made by old age and these same follies, the very thing which, by the alchymy of old companionship, had enriched me with virtues, that made him anxious I should superintend the education-rather let me say,the follies! of his only son. Accordingly next morning, immediately after breakfast, I went to Mrs. Lesley's lodgings. She lived in a fourth flat in George's Street, but I was so buoyant with the hope of seeing a renewed, and, as I was led to believe, an improved version of Lumley, that I felt neither gout nor age in ascending. On reaching the door, however, I was rather startled to observe, not that it was newly painted, one of the common lures of the season, but that the brassplate with the name was new, and seemingly fresh from the engraver. I halted on the stairhead, and looking at the plate before ringing the bell, said to myself," I do not like this-a new comer inexperienced--short commons, garnished with tales of better days, won't do—" and with a slight degree of fervency, the natural excitement of the ideas which the brass had A FRAGMENT. conjured up, I somewhat testily touched the bell. It was too long I thought of being answered; and I caught myself saying "slatternly wench," as I again laid my finger on the spring. While the bell was sounding the second summons, the door was opened, not as I expected, by a sooty besmeared drab, with dishevelled locks, and a hearth brush in her hand, looking from behind the door, as if she expected a thief, but by a little girl of some six or seven years old-the loveliest creature I have ever seen, dressed with the most perfect simplicity, and her ringlets clustering all over her head, in curls as small, pretty, and natural, as the wool buds of the fleece of the lamb. "Is Mr. Edward Lumley at home, my dear?" said I, patting her instinctively on the head with, I know not wherefore, a sentiment of pity, as my eye accidentally fell again on the ugly new brass-plate with her mother's name. "I don't know, but please to walk into the parlour, and I will inquire,” was the answer, delivered with an engaging, modest, self-possession, and with an English accent, that seemed, if I may say so, appropriately in unison with the beauty and gentleness of the lovely fairy's air and appearance. I accordingly followed her into the parlour, which I saw was newly furnished." The carpet was new-the chairs were new, but the tables were evidently second-hand, so was the grate and its appurtenances, even to the hearth-rug. Every thing was perfectly suitable to the style of the room, except a few ornaments on the mantlepiece, consisting of neat toys, made of paper, ingeniously painted. They had more the character of ornaments for the mosaic tables of a boudoir, than for the chimney-shelf of a boarding house parlour; an old squat spoutless china tea-pot, with a cup or two, odiously reminding one of senna, would have been more appropriate; but I thought of the pretty creature that had gone to inquire for young Lumley, and I said to myself, thinking no more of his comforts, but only of the family," They are begin ners, and will learn before the winter is over to dispense with these gew-gaws." At that moment a cold fit came upon me; I thought of the blooming child, and I looked again at those tasteful or naments. "I hope in God," said I," that she has no sister capable of making and painting such things-This house will never do, if Edmund has much of his father in him.” While I was thus relapsing into the peevish humour in which I had first touched the bell, the parlour door was opened by a tall and elegant gentlewoman, in the weeds of a widow. It was Mrs. Lesley; she was about five-andthirty, probably not so old; but no one, seeing her, for the first time, would ever have thought of her age, there was so much of an ever-green spirit in the liveliness of her look, and the beautiful intelligence of her eye-what she said about Edmund I do not recollect, nor do I believe that I heard it, so much was I entranced by the appearance of such a lady in a condition so humble. I imagine that she saw my embarrassment, for she requested me to be seated, and again said something about her boarder, adding, with an apparent equanimity that was exceedingly touching, "He has gone to bring a friend here, who arrived from Westmoreland last night; for as yet I have got but himself." "Is it possible?" said I, not well knowing what I said. nent certainly, but the feeling which dictated them, lent, I presume, so fitting an accent to their earnestness, that they neither gave offence, nor implied any thing derogatory to the elegant and unfortunate widow to whom they were addressed. "I am not surprised at your wonder," said she," for I do sometimes think myself that I am not very properly at home here. But what can a friendless woman do? without fortune, and with children that She could say no more-the tears rushed into her eyes-and emotion stifled what she would have added. After a brief pause, I mustered confidence enough to address her again. I entreat your pardon, madam, and I hope you will not think me impertinent for saying, that your appearance, and the business in which you have embarked, are so sadly at variance, that I should account myself wanting in the performance of a grave duty, if I did not ask for some explanation." "It is natural you should," said she, two words will satisfy you- pride and wiping the tear from her cheek; " and poverty.' Pride has brought me to Edinburgh, because I am here unknown, and poverty has induced me to try this mode of "her voice struggled, but she soon subdued the emotion, and added, " for my children. I have four two boys older, and one girl younger, than my little house-maid." "House-maid!" said I, almost with the alarm of consternation. "I am sorry it is true," replied she She smiled again, but it was such a with a smile; but there was a despon- smile that tears were inadequate to exdency in the tone that ill accorded with press the sadness of heart which it bethe gaiety of the look, and she added tokened.. "It is even so," said she, seriously, "I must, however, try a lit-"for, until I obtain another boarder, I tle longer. If Mr. Lumley brings his friend, perhaps his friend may bring another. It is in this way I expect to succeed, for I have no friends to recommend me." "Good heavens! madam," exclaimed I, no longer able to suppress the emotion with which I was affected, "how is it that you are in this condition?-how have you come here, and without friends?--Who are you? what are you?” The latter questions were imperti cannot venture to engage a regular servant. The little money which I raised by the sale of my trinkets is all I have, and the purchase of these few necessaries, (glancing her eye round the room,) has made. I assure you, no small inroad on it.” "Heavens! madam,-and if you do not get boarders, and it run out,what is to become of you?" was my silly exclamation, being by this time quite beside myself. She looked at me for some time. |