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THE SPECTRE. 



" Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned." SHAKSPEARE. 



AMONGST the millions of human beings whose little interests and 

 passions agitate the surface of this our world,, none comes in for a greater 

 share of good-natured ridicule than the unhappy believer in ghosts. 

 His most sapient and serious speculations are derided by youth and age. 

 The grey-headed seer, and the young " devil-may-care" fellow, who has 

 never thought at all, feel themselves equally excused in sporting with a 

 subject, enveloped as it is in all the mystery and shadowy solemnity be- 

 fitting that world of spirits, which, as Milton says, 



" Haunt the earth and sky when we sleep and dream." 



In the course of my reflections upon this all-important subject, I have 

 discovered that the ghosts which are so frequently the objects of astonish- 

 ment or terror in the " bank-note world," are divided into two kinds. 

 The one is that species which go by the name of fairies and sylphs, such 

 as we may suppose would hover around the form of some beautiful 

 woman, to protect her from too rude a gale, and strew in her way the 

 stolen perfumes of roses. They bring no terror in their path, nor haunt 

 you in the gloomy hour of night ; but they seem to wanton in the bright 

 sunshine ; to speak to you in the melody of music ; or touch you in the 

 soft air that fans your cheek. They are the companions of the poet, 

 waving their rustling wings round his head, and delighting his soul with 

 gaiety and hope ! 



The others are of a different nature the terror of dark church-yards 

 and village barns. They stalk in shadowy solemnity over the fair face 

 of nature, and revel in the storm. There is nothing airy or elegant 

 about them. They are silent, mysterious, and sublime. It is such as 

 these that frighten hinds and country maidens ; that stride through the 

 scenes of some secluded village, take possession of some comfortable 

 mansion of " date antique," living in the luxury of perfect freedom, 

 paying neither rent nor taxes, and leaving behind them, through all 

 their gambols, a strong odour of fire and brimstone. 



That there are such things, there can scarcely be a doubt; it is 



attested by so many persons of veracity. There was Mrs. , but I 



won't mention names sitting late one night, or rather early one morn- 

 ing, reading Maturin's Melmoth, with all the doors locked, when sud- 

 denly the wax candles burned awfully blue, and upon the Brussels 

 carpet there stood a dark deformed figure, with the countenance of a 

 frightful demon, glaring at her with a most hideous obliquity of vision. 

 It came not through the doors, nor through the windows, nor through 

 the wall, nor even through the key-hole, as some might innocently sup- 

 pose ; no, it came down the chimney, making at the same time a most 

 infernal clatter, and bringing with it a strong smell of soot ! Many 

 other instances of an equally awful nature have been related, but very 

 few exceed the dreadful adventures to which I was almost a martyr 

 during the prevalence of the yellow fever in 1818, at Charleston, South 

 Carolina. 



I had been confined to a sick chamber for a period of six weeks, 



M. M. No. 81. Y 



